


keepers of the night

by resurrectdead



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Banter, Bickering, Crime Fighting, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Bickering, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Humor, Love/Hate, M/M, Partners in Crime, Porn With Plot, Smut, Superhero Castiel (Supernatural), Superhero Dean Winchester, Superheroes, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectdead/pseuds/resurrectdead
Summary: ”When will you explain your handy dandy powers?” he asks, still studying the walls around them, dark and grimy. ”And more importantly, are they good for kicking ass?””You talk a lot,” Thunderbird points out.Only when I’m nervous, Dean doesn’t say. You’re very hot and very strong and it makes me very nervous.”Someone’s gotta,” he gruffs instead.or: Dean is known on the streets as Demonblade, superhero extraordinaire, when he gets paired up with the other mysterious vigilante of the city, going by the name of Thunderbird. To solve a crime haunting generations they have to learn to work together. It's just too bad Thunderbird is so annoying. It’s too bad Dean is head over heels in love with him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a slut for badass superhero stuff so I just had to write this or I wouldn't get any REST. 
> 
> Me and sunshine_louie wrote basically different versions of the same AU because I ended up talking so much about this idea, she also came up with the name Thunderbird (yes this is Cas), and you can read hers [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843401)

In the quiet of the night, the bulb in the lamp post next to Dean suddenly shatters and falls in a glitter around him when the other black-clad vigilante appears, seemingly out of nowhere. 

But Dean _totally_ doesn’t jump. He totally doesn’t even _flinch_. No, Demonblade - superhero extraordinaire - is a _tough_ guy, he doesn’t _do_ that kind of stuff. (It’s just good ole Dean who gulps nervously before putting the phone he’d been talking into back into the toolbelt around his waist.)

”Howdy,” Dean says, in the voice he likes to make just a smitch darker as to conceal his true identity. The full body gear and the armor and the balaclava over his face might just do the trick but, hi, he’s a paranoid son of a bitch, so he still tries as he might.

Thunderbird walks promptly towards him, the black leather trenchcoat billowing around him like a bad omen. His eyes seem nothing short of piercing; Dean almost backs away before he reminds himself they’re on the same side. Or, supposed to be, at least, or so he’s been told, or something. 

Dean smirks as his mouth works before his mind does. ”Audition for the porno version of The Matrix is the other way, buddy,” he taunts, crossing his arms. ”Or should I put on white bunny ears and we’ll call it even?”

Thunderbird’s silence is very loud in response. Welp. So much for small talk. 

”Alrighty,” Dean offers to his scrutinizing facial expression, ”let’s cut to the chase. I’m guessing we’re partners now.”

”I don’t think we agreed on registering a _partnership_ between us, Demonblade, especially since a marriage would already be legal in the state of Kansas,” is the first thing the other vigilante says, eyes narrowed with genuine confusion. He walks straight past him, so that Dean spins around quickly to follow him with his own owlish eyes. ”But let’s not engage in discussing the details when much more important things are at stake.”

Blinking rapidly, Dean stands there. Just stands. ”So fame really gets to you, huh?” he breathes, flustered over such a strange, unabashed implication, when all Dean had referred to was becoming _business_ partners. 

Okay, so basically, this guy exudes so much Big Dick Energy, Dean could just _choke_. But, he decides not to dwell on it. 

Much. 

Well, a little. 

But he’s a professional. A _superhero_ , goddamn it; the city fucking depends on him and all that. 

So after a minor internal crisis, he shrugs half-assedly, and eventually follows him.

It had happened like this: Dean had been flying solo for a few months and, thing is, Robin ain’t shit without Batman, and Spiderman is kind of a bore without Deadpool snarkily snapping back at him, and Dean had just been kind of dreaming of another rugged guy to come join him and at least take some of the punches that got so generously handed out by local villains (like, come on, the bruises were getting kind of _exhausting_ ). 

But it had been a mistake to let Sam in on that internal dialogue. A very big mistake.

And it was just so _typical_ of Sam to have found the next best superhero in Kansas and set him up with Dean’s coordinates and to only tell Dean with a five minute heads-up. Dean had been loudly cursing down the phone when He, the Douchebag with the Big D (uh, wait, scratch that?) appeared in a flourish of burst light bulbs and sparks and glitter and Dean totally not flinching. 

Either way, it was a month ago they met that fateful night, so that’s basically it. That’s the story so far. And now, the weirdo with the black mask across his Dean-piercing and oh-so-devastatingly-blue eyes is joining him again for the night’s entertainment, the fabulous investigation which is nothing short of... _uneventful._

They have been, lately. 

Big freakin’ sigh. 

Dean would rather be home stuffing his face with Ramen noodles, he’d thought upon arrival, grumpily slamming the door of the Impala - his ’67 Chevy, his baby, the love of his life - behind himself. And he keeps thinking about it obsessively as he sulkily walks up to the deserted premise in tow of Thunderbird. Something about the big picture doesn’t add up. Well, for one, Dean was pretty sure the phrase from The Matrix was to follow the white rabbit, so why is he always the one left trailing behind? Should he have put on some lace bunny ears after all? But, he degresses. The case. The _case_ they’re _dealing with_ is what he means to discuss. 

See, maybe it does add up, _partially_ , but doesn’t make _sense_ , because someone’s out there killing random high-up business guys and they can’t seem to get on top of the game, can’t seem to figure it out with the clues at hand, can’t seem to get to the point when they can start kicking bad guy ass. And kicking bad guy ass is Dean’s favorite pastime hobby. He gets very grumpy when he doesn’t get to do it. And also when he involuntarily gets a partner in crime-fighting, but, you know. Life has a habit of kicking you when you’re down. 

Instead, for some reason, Thunderbird insists on checking out this hideout that’s just an abandoned warehouse, which Dean really just can’t find any interest in. The hideout is also, as it turns out, far too easily-accessed. Which has to strike him as uncommon. Shit’s never that easy. 

Apparently the abandoned warehouse splaying out in front of them belonged to a guy called _Valkyr_. Doesn’t seem familiar whatsoever. But it was in use decades upon decades ago, and Dean didn’t attend a lot of history lessons.

The large lock hanging on the door is a telltale sign that unwarranted guests should be kept at a distance, though, so at least someone put some effort into making the place interesting, like maybe someone had something to protect after all. 

However: 

”Oh yeah, baby,” Dean gushes at the sight and rubs his palms together excitedly. ”Come to papa.”

He kneels in his green army pants next to the metal lock, pulling out the instruments he usually uses for such encounters from his toolbelt. 

”This is the best part,” he explains over his shoulder. 

And easiest. Breaking locks is a Sunday brunch. 

”That won’t do,” Thunderbird retorts gravelly, frowning as he scans the brick wall ahead. ”This is… highly complicated.”

”Nah, you ain’t seen what I can do. I’ve broken into worse places. Banks at gunpoint, the lairs of super villains, you know, the usual. I’ve got magic fingers.” 

He holds up his gloved hand and wiggles his fingers for emphasis. 

” _Magic fingers_ is just an expression to make you believe you obtain powers beyond what humans can handle,” Thunderbird husks mildly, stepping forward with an only slightly condescending look on his face. ”Please, step aside so I won’t have to put energy into worrying about your mortal body’s well-being.”

Dean drops his lockpick and huffs, affronted. ”And who the hell are _you?_ ”

”The one about to make you feel very sorry for not moving out of my way sooner.”

Being sour and annoyed was usually how things were exchanged between them, since that day when Sam apparently thought he was being incredibly funny and set them up. Not like they did it _every_ single night, but whenever they did meet for a hit, it seemed that the present weirdo usually ended up taking the lead like that. And Dean really despises giving up control during missions. Maybe in other situations is a different story - insert appropriately gross winky face - but nonetheless, this guy just kind of _sucks_ sometimes. 

Dean keeps the staring contest a little longer. Then he shakes his head and stands back up, hands up in surrender. ”Whatever, dude. Take five minutes if it makes you feel better.” He backs away, muttering under his breath. ”Don’t have to be a dick about it.”

”Then I’ll be sure to finish ahead of your odd time criteria and refrain from being such an obscenity to you. I hope that suffices.” 

Thunderbird steps forward, lifting his hands in front of the wall. But he doesn’t touch anything. It’s like he’s touching the texture without reaching, as if he feels the energy of it. As if walls _have_ energy. That’s some hippie love and peace crap. 

Dean backs away gingerly, amusement like a glint in his eye as he openly smirks at the alien way in which the other man stares ahead. Even his body language is kind of weird at the best of times, like he doesn’t understand his own limbs, like someone wearing too-big shoes or something. Dean imagines an actual green alien sitting inside his body like it’s a costume. Dean has maybe seen _Men in Black_ a few times too many.

That being said, he should clearly have done more research before they met that night about a month ago; at least Sam should have before he tracked him down. But Thunderbird is supposedly quite well known in the business and, what the hell, he deserves to laugh from time to time. Even he can admit that. 

It’s especially evident, in a moment like these, how this one clearly flew around the cuckoo’s nest and something about Dean’s internal alarm bells ring-a-dings to not just _blindly trust him_ to do the right thing. Because he knows, logically, you can’t just _do_ that, just because a guy’s brooding, mysterious and plausibly _handsome_. Only plausibly, because it’s kind of hard to see beneath any regular vigilante costume, and especially this guy thinking he’s hot shit in a black eye mask and leather trenchcoat get-up, on top of the shiny black latex bodysuit... 

Which he totally _isn’t._ Dean is just very touch-starved and it’s a very unfortunate circumstance. 

Either fucking way, at least he can _try to_ convince himself his staring is in order for himself to monitor Thunderbird. So he could keep earning his place. Yeah, that’s a good reason. A good motive. Thunderbird could keep showing him how he wields a blade, for example, and if it’s still to Dean’s liking. 

Dean, in turn, earns a bonus: he gets to keep stealing glances of his ass. 

So, basically, thing is, he ends up letting his eyes wander upon inch and inch of strong, latex-clad thighs as that trenchcoat lifts with the raise of his arms. And they wander, and wander...

”I believe this behaviour is considered socially questionable,” Thunderbird points out, as if Dean’s sudden silence was telling enough. 

Dean crosses his arms and sputters. He totally wasn’t caught being a creep. Nobody saw nothing. ”What can I say,” he attempts, “I like me a man in uniform.”

”You wear one too”, Thunderbird acknowledges. He doesn’t even spare a glance at Dean, which is not fair. He’s looking all distractingly intense, staring at that wall like he’s solving a very important mathematical problem, and none of this is fair. ”It’s customary to conceal one’s identity. I apologize, were you not aware?”

Dean chuckles quietly to himself. ”Compliments.” He makes a woosh-sound with a swipe of his hand over his head, symbolizing the compliments flying. ”It’s a good thing you’re cute, buddy,” he concludes.

Thunderbird makes no remark. That’s just Dean’s luck. This - mildly irritating, highly attractive - dude takes things too literally, yet can’t take a compliment as such. Maybe it just comes out as gibberish. Maybe Dean is just rambling. 

No, yeah. _Definitely_ rambling. 

”Tough crowd,” Dean sighs when the silence has stretched on for too long. He claps his hands together and rubs his palms in anticipation. ”So. Showtime?”

A step forward is the last mistake. In the blink of an eye, he’s suddenly pushed up against the wall. 

Rough tile is digging into his back, with a strange pressure all over his body to keep him from moving at all. Thunderbird is below him, like he’s the one with a grip on his shoulders… but his hands are up in front of him, not touching any part of his body. It’s like an invisible force field pinning him up. 

”Listen,” Thunderbird growls, no more mildness in his rough voice, inching closer to his exposed neck. Dean clenches his jaw, breathing harder. ”I expressed a concern for your well-being and you’ve ignored it. I expect that you will now begin to listen to my words and show me the same respect as I have towards you. Should you keep refraining this, _buddy_ , I _will_ have to restrain you for the rest of the mission.” 

Dean’s stomach jumps. God, okay, listen. His eyes are shooting daggers - sharper than what’s digging into Dean’s back, sharper than blades he has in his belt, which he currently can’t reach to fend for himself - and still. _Still_ , being _restrained_ has an effect on him he’d rather not share in public, making arousal buzz through his body, throbbing hotly in places unholy. 

He has to draw a breath to sober himself up. 

”You’re so handsy,” Dean comments, pupils blown wide, desperate dark concealing the usual green. 

Thunderbird tilts his head menacingly, apparently unphased by any tensions suddenly found in Dean’s body. The grip on him only seems to _tighten_. ”Have you understood?”

(Why, _oh why_ , is that _so hot?_ )

Dean gulps, voice strained through gritted teeth. ”Yes, sir.”

His feet hit the ground and his knees nearly buckle. He stares at Thunderbird, staring back at him just the same. Dean couldn’t cut the tension in the air even with his sharpest, dearest _blade_ , but maybe, maybe it’s all in his own (frankly, fucked-up) head it feels vaguely like a _sexual_ kind of tension. 

Like he just hit the point of asphyxiation that sends him swimming through pleasure. Like he’s been trembling against ropes on his wrists and surrendering control to whoever is in front of him. Like Thunderbird could just lean in right now and slot a toned thigh between his legs and pin his arms above his head and Dean would just _let_ him. 

However, there’s a question that rings like a noise of clarity in his steamed up brain, a voice of reason, thank god. Because _how_ did he _do it?_ How did he force him up against the wall without even _touching_ him?

”Getting some mixed signals here,” Dean points out a little hoarsely, feeling loopy. 

Thunderbird fixes him with a glare. ”I assume you will comply with the conditions,” he rasps eventually. 

Despite it all, Dean smirks. ”I guess we’ll find out what happens if I don’t.”

If it was anyone else, Dean would happily let them know if they ever touched him again, he’d break their nose before they could say squat to stop him. He’s not in the mood for that now, though, not when the guy can push him against the wall with the almighty power of whatever-the- _hell_ and a dash of what-the- _fuck._

Dean is just a _guy,_ for crying out loud. Dean is just a daytime mechanic who likes to cut up some bad guys in his spare time. He doesn’t mess with übermensch powers. He’ll leave that to the particularly shitty villains, and he’s been dealt a few. (He doesn’t have the name Demonblade without reason. It’s a story for another time. Or not.)

Thunderbird scowls, a last check of his intentions, and Dean’s eyes flicker to his lips. To the hinge of his jaw, the scruffy stubble, back to his icy blue eyes. That stare is so intense, so intent, it almost makes heat rise in his cheeks. 

He could kiss him. He could. And what would happen then? 

He gives him no time to linger in the hot atmosphere between them though, but turns back to the wall, making Dean huff out a breath. He shakes off the feeling to his best ability. (A hard-on in public would be a pretty _hard_ thing to recover from, ha-ha and all that.)

”So,” Dean starts, crossing his arms and making a half-assed attempt at collecting himself again, ”you’re not just staring at that for _fun,_ are you?”

”I’m working,” Thunderbird says, still unphased, voice still monotone and body still rigid. ”I’m rearranging the lock on a molecular level. Unfortunately for you this is undetectable to the regular human eye, but if it helps your understanding, it could be compared to breaking into a safe.”

Dean is good at breaking into safes. He guesses he’s not too good at working invisible codes, though, so what the hell? How can this chucklehead (scary, bossy chucklehead) be such a pro at something that logically should be, uh, goddamn impossible?

Feeling a little spooked, he pouts. ”You know, we’re all freaks here, man,” he tries, ”dressing up like this and beating up bad guys. I pass no judgement whatever your style is, Mister Latex and Trenchcoat,” he adds in a mumble, trying to hit him where it hurts just to get any reaction at all. ”But if we’re gonna work together, we should learn to deal with each other.”

Dean can imagine that if Thunderbird showed even the slightest trace of human emotion, he’d be rolling his eyes. (He assumes he doesn’t even move a muscle.) ”What do you wish to know?”

”Well, what you’re doing, preferably. And what I can do to help other than stand around like a goddamn muppet.”

A moment passes, and Dean could laugh just out of frustration. 

”You feel useless,” Thunderbird concludes, like he’s a well-versed psychiatrist. Or psychic. Or asshole. 

”That’s a speculation or an opinion?”

”A statement.” He gives Dean a shameless once-over, head to toe. ”It’s easy to tell.”

”Ouch,” Dean hisses, fake-injured, ”right in the heart. Alright, don’t freakin’ psychoanalyze me when I asked you first. What’s up? What’s your mumbo jumbo shit you’re working on? When are we in?”

”I don’t understand your combination of words.” Thunderbird takes a step backwards. ”Ask me again.”

”Huh?” Dean throws his arms out, pronouncing each word educationally slow. ”When - are - we - _in_ , dickbag?”

With the swipe of his hand through the air and without touching seemingly anything at all, the door slides open ominously in front of Thunderbird’s silhouette. 

”Huh.” Dean frowns, impressed. ”So that’s. Kinda awesome.”

”Thank you,” Thunderbird breezes and steps inside. 

If a blank wall could hold any promises of something more grand behind the surface, it doesn’t uphold its end of the deal. Dean squints into darkness before he shakes life into his flashlight produced from his belt, and still, it’s just a bunch of nothingness. As above so below. Or, as outside, so inside, but it ain’t that poetic. All they see is a dark corridor, which Thunderbird apparently deems fit to follow. Dean frowns and follows suit. Better not keep the little rascal out of his sight for too long.

”Yucky place,” Dean points out, an attempt at gaining his attention. 

It’s to no avail. Dean has tried. And Dean will keep trying. 

”When will you explain your handy dandy powers?” he asks, still studying the walls around them, dark and grimy. ”And more importantly, are they good for kicking ass?”

”You talk a lot,” Thunderbird points out. 

_Only when I’m nervous_ , Dean doesn’t say. _You’re very hot and very strong and it makes me very nervous._

”Someone’s gotta,” he gruffs instead. 

Thunderbird stops and turns around so abruptly Dean almost falls on his face trying to halt himself. ”Demonblade, I’ve _seen_ things you wouldn’t understand.”

Dean takes a step back, but Thunderbird follows. To hell with personal space.

”Are you quoting _Blade Runner?”_ Dean sneers, the inner movie nerd seeping through, which is a very unfortunate trait about him. His heart is beating harder at their proximity; the promises this kind of proximity binds. ”You’ve gotta be bleeding on a rooftop for that, man. I’d say you have to be a _space robot_ too, but I have a strange sorta hunch you fulfill that criteria already.”

”...What?” 

”Oh, yes. I also have a good alien conspiracy about ya.”

Thunderbird looks like the dictionary definition of confused. ”I’m answering your question.”

”All those... moments,” Dean quotes with gusto from the infamous ending scene, choking on the words for dramatic effect, ”will be lost in time, like _tears_... in… _rain…”_

Thunderbird stares at him in that way again, so that, for a moment, Dean almost gets shy. Okay, chill out, it’s just kinda been a while since he saw a man so handsome. Dean is just chaotically bisexual and it’s just been a while since he felt someone’s heat so close. (Someone who could strap him down and straddle him with the snap of his fingers, and oh good god, how he wants those large hands spreading his legs, how he wants that stubble to scrape the inside of his thighs…)

”Time,” Dean continues quoting vehemently, slowly fake-collapsing against the wall, ”to _die.”_

”You shouldn’t touch the evidence.”

”Oh.” Dean flies back to vertical position, brushing his sleeves off. He’s delirious. Maybe he just wants the guy to crack a _smile_ , that’s all. ”I wasn’t going to.”

Thunderbird squints aggressively. ”This has similar qualities to how you also weren't going to start reciting a movie I have not seen. I don’t see how this helps us in our mission, but I will say, I admire the effort.” He tilts his head. ”It appears you completely lack self control. That’s quite… astounding.”

“Hey, the only thing stronger than my love for icing bad guys is my self control!” Dean counters defensively, blushing furiously.

“It’s a blatant lie, which is evident by how I’ve seen you looking at me when you think I won’t notice,” Thunderbird drawls, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Oh, fudge, Dean feels himself crumble for that smirk and the purr in his voice. “But as I said, I enjoy how you still try to prove me wrong.”

He turns back around and Dean is left there, blinking and mouthing _what the hell_ to nobody in particular. He feels a little out of breath, to be honest. But he decides he can’t have a crisis, like, mid _actual_ crisis. He shakes his head vigorously before he grumpily follows. 

Thing is, the situation isn’t as eerie as it _should_ be, which in turn makes it all the _more_ concerning. They haven’t seen anyone yet, no henchmen, not a trace. Could be a dead end. Could be something else. 

”Why do I not smell the sweet aroma of freshly cut jackass yet?” Dean questions impatiently, catching up to walk alongside him. 

”We should find something soon. This is when we, as you say, can kick some ass.”

Dean perks up immediately, stopping himself from clapping Thunderbird on the shoulder in the process. ”I like your funny words, magic man.”

(He thinks this magic man might just have broken his hand if he’d tried.)

They reach a door that resembles a vault at the end of the corridor which Thunderbird - Dean swears - opens by just pushing his hand out in front of himself. No touchy. No feely. Just Dean silently gawking as it slowly swings open, to reveal...

Nada. Nothing. 

”Badabing badaboom,” Dean pipes in, ”it’s an empty goddamn room.”

Thunderbird, uncharacteristically (Dean thinks?) slams a fist to the nearest wall.

“Woah, buddy, what was that about not touching evidence?” Dean jeers.

“There is no evidence to be found,” Thunderbird informs him, “therefore I no longer hold any care.”

“Well, it can’t have been all for _nothing!”_

Thunderbird gives him a look, and Dean almost laughs just because it reminds him of Sam when he gives him an exasperated glare. Yeah, Dean usually coaxes out reactions like that. How, you ask? Talent. 

“Enlighten me how,” Thunderbird demands tiredly. 

“We got some great exercise, for one,” Dean starts, sagely. Sammy would say that. He’d be so proud. “And we clearly became best friends.”

Thunderbird glares at him, like he’s offended, and acutely confused. ”Demonblade, you _first_ suggest we engage in the process of initiating a _partnership_ contract, to _then_ suggest we annull this before it even has been written and that we merely become—”

Dean interrupts him by barking out a laugh. He looks more confused at this, and Dean has to laugh again. 

”Aw, cheer up, Thunder!” he chirps and he takes a skip forward, breaking into song. ”You ain’t seen nothing yet, b-b-b-baby you just ain’t seen—”

The performance is disrupted by an ear-splitting noise. 

Suddenly there’s a searing pain up his leg, smoke making his eyes tear up as he’s thrown across the floor, and Thunderbird is roaring his name from somewhere behind the ringing in his ears. It feels like he only _blinks_ , but in the next second he’s lying outside on the grass, panting and spitting up the dust in his lungs, body feeling like he’s been beaten bloody, like he’s been in a car crash. 

Tripwire. Bomb. Should have been blown to smithereens. 

Ah, that’s clever. 

And Thunderbird. Thunderbird can _teleport_ , or something, maybe, what the hell. He _teleported_ his annoying, blabbering, 6 feet piece of ass to safety... before disappearing without a trace. 

Dean lets his head fall back with a thud and stares at the black sky. Curtain. Applause. Exit scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan to post this on this date but happy 2 week wedding anniversary to Dean and Castiel?! Keep reading if u wanna<3
> 
> Edit 7/3: I had a dream last night I was in this universe and Dean said his what can I do ”other than stand around like a goddamn muppet” line, and Cas said ”would you rather I stick my hand up your ass like a hand puppet?” ????? Then I instantly woke up like.. what... was that.....


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bickering brothers

”How! Did! This! Happen!

”Hey, you’re the one who hooked me up with that guy,” Dean groans to Sam, kicking his black, lace-up army boot off wildly before he’s pulling his aching leg up into the sofa for inspection. 

His brother gets his concerned-therapist face on, which Dean doesn’t like very much. He’d rather see he puts on the let’s-bandage-you-up and get-you-some-pie face. And god, he really could go for some pie right now. Apple. Banana. Cherry. The entire plate model of pie. An entire plate. Of pie. 

Dean’s not himself when he’s hungry. Like the ads. But it’s true! He’s but half a man! This is clearly worse abuse than what he’s already suffered. 

”He hurt you?” Sam questions as Dean rolls up the leg of his green pants to his knee. 

”He _distracted_ me,” Dean mutters. He winces at the sight of the wound and the burns. ”Son of a bitch.”

”What do you mean, he _distracted_ you?” 

”Look, Sam, if you don’t patch me up right this second, I’ll probably die and I’ll be coming back to haunt your ass. So sort your priorities, please and thank you.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, amused. ”Aw, so cranky.”

Yeah, whatever. Ghosts aren’t even _real,_ not in his experience, so it’s a futile threat. But he once met a chick with black eyes who wanted to eat his heart out like Jeffrey Dahmer, and it gave him his nickname when she greeted his blade instead, which was a positive in the negative, and this would maybe be a more accepted threat. Dean doesn’t know how one becomes a demon, though, not even when tempted with how it could be used to annoy Sam. So maybe he’ll throw a white sheet over himself, say boo, and call it a day. 

”Shut up,” Dean suggests instead to feel like he won the argument for now. He flinches as Sam wraps a rag doused with alcohol around his leg. Sighing, he sinks miserably into the sofa. ”Why’d you have to find me that guy, Sammy? Look what it’s done to me.”

”You were complaining you were lonely,” Sam reminds him, which is true, but Dean scoffs at him regardless. ”And I still don’t get how this happened, so honestly, I don’t feel bad.”

Dean throws a hand (dramatically) over his eyes to shield them from the blinding lights. Their hideaway for the past few days is a crappy abandoned house (sometimes they’d tried to sleep in the Impala like they had when they were kids and had just gotten homeless for the first time, but being very tall has some very big disadvantages), and it just smells really bad in here, and he just really wishes they could just opt for checking into a motel room more often than not, so that maybe he’d be catching up on _Homeland_ or rewatching _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_ right now while stuffing his face with some fine takeaway cuisine and/or drinking the sorrows away as if his liver’s opinion doesn’t exist. 

But, alas. 

It’s just… been a lot to handle in one day. The guy - Thunderbird, what a dweeb name anyway - may have looked like a douche, but he also made him _nervous_ in ways he’s never been. Or, giddy… or _stupid._ He never so thoroughly planned to be the actual bantering, terrible Deadpool to his Serious Spiderman (and yes Dean loves a superhero comic every once in a while even though he is one for the past few years, get over it) but oopsie daisy, suddenly he’d forgotten all his morals and had performed a scene from a cult movie as well as a lively musical number, being the biggest fool in the state. 

And, yet! The fucker never even reacted. He never swooned, never complained, never nothing. Nada. Zero. Just scowled, or had an intense stare-off, or nearly hate-fucked him against the wall, clearly. Or, well. That was just Dean’s plaintive wishes. 

God, Dean just really thinks he’s so stupidly, incredibly _hot_ , so? Why can’t he give him anything to work with? Maybe Dean just really sucks. Well, this is granted - that childhood trauma lingering in the back of his mind will always be there to make sure he knows of this - but why can’t it just work out like in fairytale land every once in a while? 

He should probably consider the fact he could have _died_ today. He _should_ have been dead. If Thunderbird hadn’t blipped him out, he wouldn’t be lying here complaining about it. 

But that fact tends to like, give you a mental breakdown and maybe an ulcer from the stress, so he probably shouldn’t think too hard about exactly that part. 

”I’ll tell you when I figure it out myself,” Dean assures him grouchily. 

He’s just a stupid, sexy motherfucker and he’s ruining his life. It’s not good for his well-being. Which in turn, can’t be good for the city. 

Are there bigger things to worry about? Yes there are, but fear not because somehow, he’ll find room for worrying about that too. 

“Maybe it’s time I get out into the field,” Sam muses and Dean raises his finger in warning, but Sam swats it away. “Seriously, I mean I’m basically already involved anyway. I could make sure you don’t get into a mess like this.”

“What are you gonna be? The Incredible Nerd,” Dean suggests followed by a chuckle; at least he can be his own audience.

Sam kind of works as his part time nurse, part time researcher. It’s him Dean calls if he gets into trouble, and it’s more often than not him who searches the trouble up for him, so Dean can go and solve it, or punch a few punks and call it a day. Sam is good at the computer stuff. Read as: Sam is a full-on nerd. 

Sam just shrugs though. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind.”

”Yeah, yeah. You’re a geek and you’re proud.” Sam pokes him in the side and Dean flinches involuntarily. ”Oi! Tickles are off limits!”

“Revenge of the nerds,” Sam grins. He brushes ash off of Dean’s pant leg; its forest green colour has been splotched with dark red blood. ”Maybe you should be aware I’m the one patching you up, so you should think twice about insulting me.”

“Oh, how I bow down to thee,” Dean snarks as he slaps his hands away again.

“There we go! That’s more like it. Besides, remember how I own a very badass samurai sword? I’m perfectly fit to join you guys.”

“The one you got off a shady dude on eBay? And what will you do with that, go and kill Bill in a yellow jumpsuit? Oh hey, there’s an outfit idea for ya.”

Sam snorts, and Dean is very content for a moment that at least someone around here knows a movie reference. It’s basically general knowledge. “And? You wear a ski-mask, Dean.”

“It’s a _balaclava_ , Sam.” He takes a swig from his flask of liquor (it’s the greatest medicine) before he settles back onto the sofa. His ribs kind of hurt. ”Whatever. Did you find any more info about the guy, anyway?”

About as much as he knows, is that the guy’s name is Thunderbird. It’s what everyone who’s been reading a newspaper the past few months knows. 

Or at least it’s the nickname he’s been given, because people swear they were saved from this and that by a flying dude, this one right here. Like, is it a bird, is it a plane? No, it’s a Thunderbird, apparently, appearing like a storm and saving the day (and maybe killing a few light bulbs, so maintenance must have a bone to pick with him). But, you know, Dean isn’t bitter that they haven’t been covering a lot about _Demonblade’s_ crusades in favour of this jerkoff, he totally isn’t; he’s just questioning their standards a little bit, that’s all. (What’s the fun in tricking them into thinking a dude is somehow flying, in comparison to Dean stealthily climbing a 10-story building? Yeah, it ain’t _shit_ , glad that’s settled. Moving on...)

He looks about Dean’s age too, from his speculation, or maybe a few years his senior because Dean doesn’t usually get a _thing_ for younger men, that’s for sure. Dark hair, which looks pitch black although it may just be how they always meet in the dead of night, styled into a disheveled quiff (like a dilf of Dean’s dreams, deep freakin’ sigh), with scruff across his jaw framing soft, pink lips. And he’s a stupid, sexy motherfucker. That’s established. So that should give them something to work off of, right? Right. 

Only Dean would never say it out loud. That’d be embarrassing. If he’s the world’s lousiest detective, then so be it, because he refuses to admit to this strange infatuation, thanks and goodnight.

And the fact President Douchebag loves wearing a black, leather, nicely fitted goddamn trenchcoat was one of the first things that had struck Dean when he saw him. Because it struck him as _odd_. Obviously. But also because it’s kind of _funny_ ; Dean wouldn’t expect anyone to wear one since the 80’s or something, kind of like the box of stuff he inherited from his dad when he passed away, the one he snagged his own favorite everyday-wear leather jacket out of. (That box was one of the few things his dad ever gave to him. Apart from, of course, a small inheritance that allowed him and Sam to start doing what it is they do, with a nice side of emotional neglect, and some childhood trauma to-go. So at least there’s that.)

Maybe it could have been cool, maybe he could have been worthy of a badass entrance playing _Sharp Dressed Man_ by ZZ Top, because Dean’s daily life is basically a playlist and he could have definitely imagined it. 

But Dean refuses to give him that pleasure. 

He’s not bitter, though. He’s totally _not_. 

”Yeah,” Sam answers, discarding the rag so suddenly Dean has to bite down on his lips not to curse. ”It seems like he took the role off of someone else who’s been spotted around Kansas, since around the 1930’s. It’s mentioned in a lot of old newspapers, not just local ones either. Guy was kind of a hit sensation back in the day. But, you know how the _times_ weren’t the most fun.”

Dean purses his lips and creases his brow. He didn’t attend a lot of history lessons.

”Don’t hurt your brain doing that,” Sam deadpans. 

”Am not.”

Still not really getting it though.

 _”The great depression?”_ Sam supplies. 

”Ah.”

”You still don’t know, do you?”

”Nope.”

Sam breathes out heavily through his nose and Dean secretly smirks. ”Big uprise in crime, to keep it short. Bonnie and Clyde, you know, that stuff.”

”Well I know _them!_ ” Dean defends. ”Like Pumpkin and Honey Bunny. Dream team, I got you.”

”Right, whatever helps you understand. God, it’s like talking to a child sometimes.”

”Hey!”

”When was the last time you read a book anyway?”

”Well screw you,” Dean snaps as he props himself on his elbow, ”because first of all, you read as if you’re _breathing!_ It’s too hard to focus, nobody does that. Maybe aliens. And second, uh _hello_? I totally read. You know the one.” He waves his hand around searching intelligently for words. ”Vongurt.”

Sam blinks. ”This means Vonnegut?”

”Yeah.” He snaps his fingers. ”That one. Come on, get off ass, Sammy, you know I read _Fight Club_ too. Don’t know how the hell to pronounce the guy’s name though so I can’t brag but whatever.”

Sam takes a breath, but stops himself. ”Anyway,” he continues loudly with an exhale and Dean lies back down, feeling triumphant, ”there was a lot of _crime_ and he saved a lot of _people_ , up until about the 1950's. They didn’t know if he was a vigilante or something of the supernatural, or just a myth. Some really thought he’s a saint or an angel sent from Heaven, with the way he came to save people.” 

Dean hums in acknowledgement. ”Are you sure he took over from someone? He doesn’t, you know, sparkle in the sun?”

”I don’t think he’s a vampire, no,” Sam offers. Dean closes his eyes again and gets comfy while Sam rustles with his equipment. ”I’m thinking, since he’s been spotted a lot less over the years, whoever he is doesn’t like to play the part as much as the last one he took over from.”

”Maybe,” Dean muses. ”Could be why he’s so moody all the time.”

”So you’re a match made in Heaven,” Sam chirps. Dean jerks up to tell him to eff off, but instead it makes him see how he’s collected dental floss and a sterilized sewing needle. Dean’s pulse beats a little more anxiously as Sam hands him the leather belt. ”Bite on this. I’ll try to be quick.”

Dean limps onto the bus. It’s a walk of shame if he’s ever seen one. Dean didn’t even get the privilege of getting screwed; not in the good way, anyway, just screwed over by a case he couldn’t even fucking solve. 

The stitches on his leg itch annoyingly, recently washed in his finest corner shop alcohol. 

Skipping _You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet_ on his iPod with a wry expression on his face, he settles for _Enter Sandman_ as he sinks down in a vertical seat (he likes to have the easiest escape route already planned and this way it doesn’t trap him beside an old lady taking three years to move out of the aisle seat) and leans back against the window, tilting his head back with a sigh, black headphones on to cancel out the surrounding world. The cold surface prickles his skin, keeps him from dozing off, hands slack on his jeans-clad knees that are sore just the same as the rest of him. 

And the leather jacket - which he loves to death despite its tears and unconventional stitchwork - is weighing heavy on him, dragging down into the bruised skin. It’s reminding him he possibly cracked a rib and probably should have that checked out in the nearest future. See, Dean is no stranger to kinky sex involving all kinds of slapping and biting and him tied to a bedpost, but when it’s been done against his _will_ it kind of just makes him want to curl back up in bed, or to soak in a hot bath, or screw it away for some _actual_ fun. 

In short, all his Greatest Hits. Furthermore, in short, being beat up for nothing makes him feel particularly whiny. (This morning had been a game of who could be loudest: Dean cursing and moaning while stretching his taut muscles, or Sam bellowing through the wall for him to shut the bleep up.)

People filter past and kindly ignore the little cut he got across his freckled nose; silly to imagine that anyone would bother to ask him what happened. Having a daytime job does come in handy, sometimes, to pay bills and invest in painkillers for one, but especially for keeping the appearance of a normal dude who fixes cars for a living and gets a few scratches here and there. He got attacked by a wrench while digging into a motor, clearly. 

Because Dean Winchester is not Demonblade. Dean Winchester is your friendly neighbour mechanic. He obviously has callouses and scars and bruises and homemade stitches and the stiffest body a 29-year-old could possibly have because he fixes up darling cars for a living. He doesn’t own one himself because it’s expensive, not because the one he does own and adore attracts very much attention like a Batmobile and is secretly stored in a garage specifically for missions. He never has an address because he moves a lot, not because he hasn’t had a stable home since he was 14 and has been moving where crime rates go up since he was eighteen. He lives with his younger brother because times are tough, not because they fight crime together. 

Dean Winchester is now taking the very normal bus ride to his very normal daytime job. Howdy. 

He opens his eyes when a lady slides down in the seat next to him, pulling his jacket closer to himself with a polite smile. He leans his head back again and his eyelids flutter, threatening with sleep. But before they can close he lets his gaze fall on the person sitting opposite him in the bus. 

Eyes downcast, the man across fiddles with the loose piece of plaster around his finger, hunched in the seat like he’s trying not to be seen. He’s in a midnight blue suit, ironed neatly, and Dean allows himself to be mesmerized. He’s too groggy (after 3 hours of sleep and equal amounts of coffee cups) to care what he looks like doing it; the man is an anomaly in the fluorescent lights, mismatched from the normalities, and once Dean is looking, he can’t deny he stares. 

The most astonishing thing happens when he looks up. 

Even if it’s a short, fleeting moment, Dean feels electricity through his body when he catches his eye. It’s big, hooded eyes in the brightest shade of blue staring right back, piercing into him, like an intoxicating slap across the face. Like being pinned to a wall in ecstasy. 

Dean straightens himself up a little, beholding the man in front of him. His black hair, artfully disheveled. The hinge of his jaw. The neck to wander on with your lips. The mouth that spits venom if you cross him. The dusted stubble to trace the inside of your thigh. The large hands, resting in his lap, unbothered, clasped, carefree, those that hold the utmost power and he’s sure, Dean’s so _sure_ they had him against a wall the night before without even having touched him. That they could, as easily as that, have him up against the wall again, if only his mouth was there to cover him too. 

He doesn’t know how he knows, but it’s Thunderbird. It’s him. Unmasked. Unsuited. _Normal._

It’s all only to realise, the man is slowly tilting his head away - never meant to pause, never meant to stop Dean’s world - and, looking up at the moving text on the display, he’s rising. He stands. It’s his stop. And he. 

He limps cautiously off the bus. _Limps_ like Dean has done. Maybe it’s his ankle, his knee, it’s not the same leg, but fuck. _Fuck._

Dean doesn’t need much more persuasion after that. He freezes in shock, first, like his heart slowed to a stop in the moments passing so gingerly. 

Then he bolts up, flies out the door - gets caught as it’s closing, wrestles himself through - and disappears into the crowd. He keeps the midnight blue shape in his sight. 

Until he realises he’s standing in the middle of a townsquare, spinning aimlessly, his goddamn leg burning with pain and there isn’t any lean, midnight blue man in sight. He stands like an idiot, breathing heavily, headphones now around his neck thumping out _Sad But True_ as he’s scanning the area for fuck-all. 

_And._

He’s going to be late for work. 

Oh… heck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say the title of this fic is from "descending angel" by the misfits. I also wanted to say I have [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0X1flMpv272wP0Ig9KNSy1?si=9a4449fcbdba477f). :~)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crime scene

The next time Demonblade encounters Thunderbird, Dean has invited him to meet on a rooftop, and Dean has brought pizza. 

But you know, it’s not a _date_ or anything. 

Dean gets to witness it himself - or, you know, _not_ witness it - like those news articles all bragged about and claimed to have happened, when he hears a sudden noise as if something wooshes through the air - somehow like the flap of wings? - and when he turns around with the pizza halfway to his partially unmasked face, Thunderbird stands there in his leather trenchcoat and watches him with strange interest. 

Dean freezes with the cheese as a string between his mouth and the pizza slice, sinking downwards in the space in between, comically slow. 

A slice which Dean raises like a greeting. ”Refreshments?” he offers sheepishly. 

Thunderbird squints. ”Fermented dairy on greased up gluten is indeed an interesting combination,” he says mildly, and Dean is already rolling his eyes, ”but I'll have to decline your offer of sharing this cholesterol together.”

”Aw, I thought we were friends, Thunder.”

He considers him. ”I don’t think that would be suitable. We have a very businesslike stance as is, and it would be unwise—”

”Alright, good talk.” Dean pops the slice into his mouth and dries the grease off his mouth before he rolls his balaclava back down over his chin. ”Look. I just wanted to go over our plans. The shitshow we went through last time doesn’t need a repeat, in my professional opinion.”

”I was sure it was the right place to go,” Thunderbird murmurs with something that might have just sounded like regret. 

”Well, it was a set-up,” Dean states. ”Explosions can preferably be avoided in the nearest future.”

He sits down on the ledge around the rooftop and brushes his palms over his thighs. He only picked this building because it doubled as a pizza place downstairs, so it utterly lacks anything interesting other than a staircase to the roof, next to a flower shop. (At least it does have this very lovely ledge to sit on.) 

”And if there ever was evidence in there,” he continues, ”it blew up. But that’s on me.”

”It wasn’t your fault.”

Dean looks up. Thunderbird is turned away, so he doesn’t know what his expression is. Kind of seems like he can’t express them anyway, but Dean sure can try to figure him out anyway. 

He’s struck with that feeling again, like when he saw the man on the bus. Logically, he knows he can’t be _sure_ it was really him; he sure wouldn’t recognize him back anyway, given Dean’s full cover when they’re on a job. But now, studying his hair, dark and soft with some wayward, unruly strands, Dean thinks he knows. He thinks. No, maybe he just _knows_. Maybe he’d recognize that adorably messy ruffle anywhere. 

”I have a new lead,” Thunderbird continues, and Dean has to pop the lovey dovey thoughts with a pin like they’re a balloon. A heart-shaped one. He rolls his eyes. ”I’m sure of it this time.” 

”Uh-huh.”

”Demonblade, you have to trust me on this.”

Dean is hit by how earnest he sounds. Ouchie, he’s trying to get to his itsy bitsy heart? It’s closed off, anyway; no visitations, so bye-bye now, smell ya later. 

Because as far as Dean knows, anyone who he’s ever let in (apart from Sammy, although he’s not sure he ever had to make an actual conscious decision whether or not to do so, since he knew the little shit since Dean was four and baby Sam came into the world hollering like a banshee and Dean decided he loved him to pieces), just ends up stabbing him in the back. 

And friends are supposed to stab you in the front. Upright and honest, even mutually decided. Not when you least expect it. Not when you need them. 

Dean just wants someone to stick around for once. 

He keeps challenging him with the glare he won’t meet. ”Oh, I _have_ to?”

”I think it’s required. We work together, and I trust _you_ ,” he emphasises with turning around, ”so I believe it’s actually deemed as fair that you should trust me back.”

Dean cocks his head at him, the slender, strong body wrapped in the idiotic trenchcoat, face lit up by a nearby neon sign. The mask around his eyes seemingly makes his eyes even bluer with the contrast of that pitch blackness. If Dean was to say he’d never had a fantasy about a guy dressed like this, he’d be lying. Straight up. 

Leather and latex, man. That’s all. It burns any hard exterior he ever tries to build up and makes him want to melt like hard candy under his touch. 

”Maybe if you can convince me,” he murmurs eventually. 

But fuck it, right. They’re not even _friends._

Thunderbird almost gives off an expression as if relieved, shoulders detensing a little. ”I suggest I inform you on the way to the location.”

Dean pouts at the pizza carton. So much for romance. 

But he shouldn’t mess with things he doesn’t understand the majority of. Like, a guy with non-human powers, for instance. Like these unexplainable _feelings_. Even though he’d like to drown in the warmth, maybe find out if he’d let him kiss him…

...if he’d lean into it, or, if he’d punch his face out of the Earth’s orbit.... 

Nah, man. He shouldn’t let it sway him. He’ll just leave it be. Unprofessional, is what it is. The city depends on them, on this night as much as any other. 

And if Dean had just a fleeting thought when he saw him on the bus - _what if we fall in love like this? What if we meet anew, no masks, no bullshit?_ \- then he pops it like another heart-shaped balloon and watches it go, like dust in the wind. Hasta la vista, baby. 

He sighs plaintively, tips his head back. No stars in the city; the lights down here too bright to let them shine. It’s all a black-draped canvas in the sky. As above, so below, because down here below sits Dean, and Dean feels like shit. 

”Fine,” he grunts eventually and gets up. He moves quickly towards the door leading to the stairs. ”But we’re being _civilians_. I got motion sick travelling your whacko ways.” He tugs it open, avoiding Thunderbird’s devastatingly blue eyes and gestures wildly. ”Ladies first.”

”So how do you know who this guy is?”

”I can’t tell you.”

”Jeez, alright. So I’ll just follow you to my _death_ again.”

Thunderbird’s lead - as it apparently had been last time, seeing as it was the same guy’s very pointless and very abandoned warehouse - is some guy named Valkyr. He can’t seem to elaborate much more than saying the name, which was stated in a _snarl,_ as it probably should be said, because apparently he’s very bad news. 

Just _how_ bad, Dean doesn’t know. Which fucking sucks because he doesn’t want anymore stitches done in a makeshift hospital bed and performed by his baby brother armored with his dental floss, so, a little heads up would be nice. But apparently that’s too much to ask. 

So much for mutual trust. 

The silence settles between them, enough to even make Dean uncomfortable. Dean, regular ole Dean, but Demonblade as well; it shows in how he grinds his jaw and looks away into the distance, walking next to Thunderbird through the dimly lit backstreets. Dean is good at shoving his feelings away like a box in the attic, apart from when he’s with Thunder and it all goes to shit, boxes falling chaotically through the floor, breaking from the weight of too many put away. Well. At least it goes with his vigilante shtick to be salty. 

They get the new place within sight, which becomes evident by how the other man slows to a stop before they have time to exit the alley they’re crossing. Thunderbird squints at the place. This time it’s lit up and seems very much in use, for a change. 

”Arrived at destination?” Dean murmurs, studying the building from the secluded spot. ”Alright, looks like they could be armed to the teeth, so this should be fun.” 

Once, Dean kicked butt of a failed military experiment who was still cruising the base, so that’s kind of what he’s reminded of now. Guy had some super strength as an advantage but, you know, whatever, his stories usually end with lethally plunging nine inches of steel into a shitty person, so he wouldn’t exactly be a joy at parties.

He glances over at Thunder, then back at the building to point at the entrance. ”What if we go in from different angles, huh? I check the back window, and you check the front door,” he conspires, and stops to consider Thunderbird’s input. He leans his head to the side to try and find his gaze. ”Hullo? Earth to Trenchcoat?”

”I possess the power to shift molecules, to bind broken cells,” Thunderbird says suddenly. ”It’s been called to heal.”

So, that’s new. Dean raises an eyebrow. ”Hey, buddy, I didn’t _ask_ , but go on.”

”You asked me last time we met about what it is I do. I considered it.” He tilts his head, appraisingly. ”Now I’m answering.”

Dean feels vaguely _touched_ by that. President Douchebag is learning to be human? ”Oh, alright. Thanks.”

”You’re welcome.”

Dean breathes out a laugh. Oh, this little idiot, what would these missions be without him?

Well, they probably wouldn’t be happening at _all_. But Dean also wouldn’t have a weirdo soldier as the devil on his shoulder or the bane of his existence. _That’s_ the title he’ll award them if they can’t be friends nor partners. 

That’s what he deserves for all the torment and agony he feels when he can’t stop looking at him. 

”Hey, so you’re not so bad after all,” he murmurs, knocking his knuckles gently against Thunderbird’s arm. He feels warmth as he drags them down the leather sleeve, a warmth so inviting, so nice.

”This…” Thunderbird’s gentle, studying eyes fall on his hand, ”doesn’t puzzle you?”

”Surprisingly, no.” His knuckles caress their way back up, rounding a defined bicep. ”Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a crap.”

Blue eyes flicker up to his, but Dean’s attention stays on his body. He starts to fix the collar on his trenchcoat. It absolutely needs fixing. 

”You’re also…” Eyes fleeting to Dean’s lips; it’s like he feels it rather than sees it. He burns. ”Remarkable.”

He feels set on fire. But it’s so buoyant, so peaceful. So normal. 

”About last time.” Dean clears his throat, trying not to start blushing. He thumbs across the collar, furrows his brow. ”I uh, never got to thank you for that, did I? You saved my ass, hauling me out like that.”

”I never hauled ass,” Thunderbird replies seriously. ”I flew.”

Dean freezes. Pops his lips. _”Right_. I thought I’d gone nuts but there you go.” He withdraws quickly to cross his arms, then looks up at him with a smirk. ”You _fly_ , huh. Care to elaborate?”

”No.”

”Figured.” Dean sighs. ”Hm.”

”Should we proceed with our mission?”

”Yes, please, let’s move along.”

Dean almost wants to call Sam immediately to tell him about it. Sam is kind of like the Oracle to his Batman, monitoring from home, but if Demonblade really was like Batman he’d have a cool headset built into his mask instead of a phone in a toolbelt, and if that was the case, calling his personalized-computer-nerd would be that much easier. He’d also be able to appear out of nowhere, a badass shadow vigilante, world’s greatest detective… but somebody already took that gig from him. Appearing out of thin air and then blipping out of existence again. 

But, goddamn. He really _flies_. How does that even _work?_

Dean wants to ask, oh man, there’s so much he wants to ask. Instead he keeps quiet as they start towards the building. He knows at the same time, he can tell nothing to Sam. Not yet. Not until he knows more and where they stand. These things are said in confidence; maybe Dean shouldn’t throw that all away. 

Maybe friendship is a good point to aim for after all. Maybe his efforts don’t all just go down the drain. 

”Alright, I’ll go ’round back,” Dean announces as he pulls a knife from his belt. ”Check the front.”

”We’ll meet inside,” Thunderbird confirms in a hushed voice. 

”I can’t wait.”

”Yes you can,” he pipes in, confused, and Dean has to stop right as he’s about to pull away and sprint towards the building. ”It will take a moment to get there. Please be patient.”

He turns back to him, breaks into a smile. He places his hand on Thunderbird’s cheek. ”God bless you, Feathers, and your weird little brain. Never change.”

If he lingers in the touch for a few more seconds than what is necessary, nobody has to know. Thunderbird’s stare is electric, like they’re different ends of a magnet; bound to stay like this. He’s the lightning and the thunder. Dean is fucking _thunderstruck_. 

And Dean wants to kiss him so bad it _hurts_ when he trails his fingers down his jaw as he drops his hand, then bolts away. 

And, so what, if every single night together is their possible last one on Earth? Totally doesn’t mean it should be an excuse to take a midnight trip to a motel and bang, just for the hell of it, one last hurrah. Hide the anxiety in the friction between cotton and latex, gasps and whimpers, hard and mellow. No, totally, this is purely professional now. No matter how much Dean wants to. 

And fucking goddamn it, because it makes him _stupid_ just how much he _wants_ to. 

But. So what. Right? Right. (Cough, cough.)

The mission goes as planned while Dean climbs the wall, in through the window which he manages to open with a little technique he very much likes to call _magic fingers._ Stealthily, with a decade or more worth of practice (that reckons a little bit of bragging, at least), he infiltrates the dark interiors with barely a sound. Yeah, lo and behold, he’s kind of awesome. He knows what he’s good at. 

He extracts his flashlight and looks around himself at grimy walls, spiderwebs in the corners catching the light in its threads. He scrunches his face up. Then he continues down a corridor, pushing through a few doors with his shoulder and scanning the rooms. 

They’re empty just the same. Feels like another clear dead end. 

Until one door, when he pushes through and it’s a dimly lit room. Blinking as his eyes adjust he jumps when Thunderbird opens a large door opposite him to a loud squeak of the old metal hinges, but his eyes fall back to movement in the middle. 

A man stands there, hunched, hands around his neck, and Dean immediately starts sprinting before he even sees the blood gushing out of the wound between his pale fingers. 

But before he can reach the victim, someone’s tugging him back, and Dean only has to take one look over his shoulder before he raises his fist. He comes crashing back into the henchman with knuckles first, right into his face. The enemy groans and Dean doesn’t hesitate to knee him in the stomach before he throws him to the ground, knocking him unconscious when his head hits the cement floor. 

”Any more of you punks wanna try me?” Dean roars, pulling knives from his belt as his voice echoes around the room. ”I’ve got _so_ much more fun up my sleeve.”

The door swings open behind Thunderbird, and Dean spins around. The second henchmen comes out jeering. ”Aw, you guys! The pretty boy got himself a pretty boyfriend! Nice _dress_ , where’d you—”

He hears the crashes before his eyes have time to even focus. How Thunderbird throws the man into the wall, merely by lifting his hands and sending him forcefully flying, a stern and furious expression on his face, head tilted forward. 

Guy really wasn’t expecting it. Dean can’t imagine anyone ever does. 

”Are you jealous?” Thunderbird grinds out, an ice cold rage in his eyes. A lamp breaks in the ceiling. Somehow it seems related. ”Let’s hold hands.”

Dean clenches his jaw as he watches the man’s hand get bent unnaturally, hears the bones as they break. A scream of horrid pain bounces around the cement walls.

”Fuck you,” the thug sobs, eyes wide and wild. Hand limp and arms trembling. ”What the _hell_?”

”Let’s hope you got good insurance,” Dean mutters, feeling only a little shaken, ”asshole.”

The victimized man in the room starts making strained noises behind Dean, reminding him with a start of his presence. They sound inhuman, whimpering, gurgling. He puts his knives away and runs up just as the man falls to his knees.

”Oh!” The man against the wall makes a sound, almost like a laugh. In a very deranged and unsettling way, his sweat-glistening face with vacant eyes lights up, like with menace despite how his hand is broken to pieces. ”You have no _idea_ what’s going on, do you?”

Dean ignores him, wraps an arm protectively around the bleeding man on the floor, grinding out assurance after assurance while his heart pounds hard: _we got this, you’ll be okay, stay with me_. He tries to convince himself of it too while he puts his hands around his neck for extra pressure, tries to keep the man’s trembling ones from coming off. To keep the slash across his throat closed, and keep the blood from spilling out. 

”What wouldn’t you do for money, eh? Tell me that much. Humour me. What _wouldn’t_ you do for a slice of paradise?” The man rumbles on, really laughing behind each word now, manically. He must be speaking to Thunderbird, leveling him like a matador staring into the red hot fury in the eyes of the bull, ready to strike. ”This is what I do. I don’t think we’re all that different, you and I. Except, to be fucking fair,” he scoffs, Dean feels sick with it, ”I’m not taking it up the _ass_.”

Thunderbird knocks his head against the wall before and Dean hears the thump when he falls unconscious to the floor. 

“Call 911,” Dean orders Thunderbird sharply when he knows his attention is back. He can’t let these things get to him. The man is dying, and he wrenches his head towards him, his face now much more blank; he finished. “Phone’s in my belt. Do you know the address?”

Thunderbird doesn’t respond to his panic, instead he looks around himself with squinting eyes. At first, Dean can only think he needs to start _yelling profanities_ at him; it’s a matter of fuckung _seconds_ before it’s too late. 

And, at first, he doesn’t notice as their breaths start to come out as _vapor_ as the room grows gradually colder. 

He doesn’t see the _thing_ closing in on them.

Thunderbird suddenly jerks his head and fixes his eyes at a point behind Dean, yells his name, and Dean takes it as a que to look over his other shoulder. 

This is— some kind of _entity_ , he immediately thinks. Which... wouldn’t be the weirdest thing, in these trying times, to be goddamn honest. Ghosts aren’t real. Ghosts are from stories. But Dean is shaking with fear and panic, staining his hands in blood from a stranger’s severed throat, and this is very much real. 

The thing closing in on him could very well be a man, a man in a brown suit and an old-fashioned hat. But he’s pale. All of him is pale, like all he is is an old, faded photograph. It’s like the edges are blurry. His existence, barely here. 

Dean is about to grab the man dying in his arms and run—

“Son of a bitch,” Dean has time to growl.

But he vanishes. 

Behind where he’d stood, Thunderbird appears, his switchblade in hand. There’s no blood on it. 

But he stabbed him. 

And he just… _dissolved._

Dean doesn’t have time to connect the dots. Cold sweat on his back, he diverts his frantic eyes back to the man in his arms. 

Thunderbird walks up slowly to the scene and puts his blade back into his sleeve. Way too slowly. 

“What the hell are you _doing?”_ Dean roars, soaked in desperation, much like the man is soaking him in his blood, shaking in his grip. 

But Thunderbird calmly walks up, and gently puts two fingers against the man’s glistening forehead.

And when the man removes his trembling hands from around his severed neck, the cut is healed, and all the blood is gone from off their bodies.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aftermath

The papers show up soon enough to capture the heroic deed. It means camera flashes, reporters trying to get an interview. It means Dean staring longingly at Thunderbird, just two feet away, wondering if it will show in his eyes in the pictures. Just how much he fucking stupidly _adores_ him right now. 

It’s been a while since he was part of saving a life. It’s been a while since he ran into the press, too. Paps got the best of him in his early years and he ended up always bolting when he saw one approaching. Now though, he doesn’t feel mad about it. 

He holds his gaze there, in the comfort, the _beauty_ , studying Thunderbird as he tries to converse with an unknowing reporter. That is, until a photographer shoves them together so suddenly their shoulders bump. He takes their photo as suddenly as he appeared. 

“That’s our front page,” he announces, and Dean sheepishly grins and rubs the back of his neck, blush creeping in from all the attention. Positive, nonetheless. 

Someway, somehow, in all the tumultuous, Thunderbird’s pinky brushes the side of his thigh. Like he’s splayed his fingers, searching for a touch; gentle, trying fingertips. 

Dean feels an ache in his chest as he dreams of taking this searching hand in his. 

It’s... _obviously just in his head._

”Demonblade, can I have your autograph?”

He blinks at the girl suddenly in front of him, shaking him out of the trance. He writes his alias with a winky smiley on the back of an old newspaper and gives it back to her, before she’s squeezing into his side and taking a picture. 

Despite it all, Dean laughs, blinking at the white spots dancing in front of his eyes from the iPhone flash in the night. It’s all that euphoria, man. He feels high on nothing. 

“Thanks,” the girls say and chitter with delight, moving on to Thunderbird - _the hot one_ , they call him in far-too-loud whispers - with such force and determination Dean has to laugh again. Well, fuck, at least he can agree he’s incredibly handsome. _Definitely_ the hot one here. 

”Hey, D-man,” a familiar, heckling voice calls from behind him. ”Can I have one too?”

Dean turns around and grins at Sam. ”Ha-ha,” he chides, “that’s hilarious.” 

He checks his phone on instinct but doesn't have any missed calls or messages. Usually that’s Sam’s preferred way of contact while he’s in the field, as to make sure they don’t get spotted together and someone connects them. Sam’s safety will always be a top priority in Dean’s life. He almost gives him a noogie for coming out uninvited, but that would be unwise, given that he’s supposed to be a superhero talking to an absolutely unknown, and likely irrelevant, civilian. Just a civilian coming to try to speak to the superhero dude. 

He looks up again to greet Sam with less of a dubious smile. ”What are you doing out here?”

“Getting my fair share of the famous duo.” Sam’s in a snapback to shield his face somewhat, camera flashes be damned. Dean makes a mental note to point out later how he should be wearing a warmer jacket for this time of night, and that he should most importantly _be in bed_ , because it’s like? 2 AM? Well, Sam is very wise for figuring out he can avoid Dean going all big brother duty on him this way. “I’m a _huge_ fan. I’ve heard all your songs, or movies, or something.”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, you’re just jealous.”

”Call it intrigued,” he corrects him offhandedly. “Which... speaking of...”

Dean follows Sam’s gaze over his shoulder at Thunderbird being photographed, not by the press, but by another group of girls waiting in line. He chuckles at the sight. Guy looks confused as all hell, blinking at the flash on their mobile phones, hair all disheveled like he just rolled out of bed. 

“Yeah, now you get your first seat view,” Dean gruffs, still watching him. “What’s the verdict, huh? Ten outta ten?”

Sam puts his hands in his pocket and tilts his head, a hint of skepticism in his narrowed eyes as he tries to decide on the matter. Then he lightly elbows Dean in the side. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he saved your ass again, so. No choice but to stan.”

“I owe him really badly, don’t I?” Dean supposes, gnawing on his lip as he turns back to Sammy. 

“It’s twice in a row. You should really send him a gift bag.”

“He kind of said no to my pizza, so I’m not sure he would accept a fruit basket or anything like that either. Maybe a gift card. A spa day.”

“I’ll take both if he says no,” Sam grins mischievously. Stupid health nut. This geek eats salads and pretends it’s good. ”And hey, he’s not exactly bad looking, is he?”

Dean blushes hot immediately, eyes large and pleading. ”Don’t even go there, man,” he breathes. ”It’s not good for my heart.”

”Oh, touchy subject?” Sam sneers widely, very cruelly, goddamn it all. ”I see now why he was _distracting_.”

”I swear to god I will slap you.”

Sam has known Dean is bi for basically as long as Dean has; because who else was he going to tell after he figured it out himself at the ripe age of 23? According to him, though, he’s known it longer, since Dean spent a long time in denial and apparently Sam thinks he’s smart like that. Either way, Dean is hardcore regretting that whole coming out thing just about now. Sam is clearly abusing his rights. This is a hate crime. Against him and his stupid feelings. 

”No, you won’t,” Sam corrects good-naturedly. ”Because - don’t look - but our prince charming is just joining us.”

Thunderbird saunters up, hands in his pockets. He looks at Dean, and Dean finds himself looking back silently, fighting away the blush boiling his face alive, even in the crispy cold of the early AM. 

”It’s an honour to meet ya,” Sammy tells Thunderbird, putting on a fake voice to his best ability. He aims for a strong Southern twang when put on the spot. ”I’mma mighty big fan.”

”And no, he doesn’t mean he’s a device that blows air,” Dean says and winks. ”He’s just admiring.”

”I see,” Thunderbird says, still looking at Dean. ”Likewise.”

Dean’s grin only grows. Something squirms funnily inside him, fuzzy and warm. He’s pretty sure that’s the closest thing he can use to describe what he’s currently feeling, looking into Thunderbird’s eyes. 

Just admiring. _Admiring_ each other. 

”I know who you are, by the way,” Thunderbird says, redirecting his eyes to Sam. ”We’ve spoken previously. You called about joining Demonblade on our mission.”

”Dang it!” Sam exclaims in the same Southern accent with a stomp of his foot, maybe would have thrown his cowboy hat at the ground if he’d had one, before he gives up with a cough. ”Yeah no, that was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”

”Terrible,” Dean confirms, nodding solemnly. ” _Painful_ , actually.”

”Shut up. You can’t side with _him_ when I’m the one who set you up, that’s just unfair.”

”Oh yeah, we have you to thank for our union, kiddo.” Dean chuckles. ”Look at us. Three musketeers.”

”I don’t understand,” Thunderbird says, squinting. ”You also work personally with the very tall man?”

”When this tall man isn’t my HR guy,” Dean starts to explain, ”recruiting trenchcoat dudes to my Demonblade crusades, he helps with other stuff, yeah. Figuring out clues and like, checking info. He loves nerding it up.”

”And nursing Dean when he gets an itsy bitsy scratch,” Sam chastises. 

”Bite me,” Dean snaps. 

”Oh, and he’s so feisty! Never a dull moment.”

“I see,” Thunderbird says in between them, as if he’s getting a fascinating result on his lab experiment. “This is how you show _affection.”_

“Yeah,” Sam snides, “sure, this is our fabulous love-hate relationship.”

“We’re not _dating,”_ Dean clarifies, feeling flustered, like what the heck? Thunderbird shouldn’t go thinking… thoughts. Dean is _single_. Let’s put that out into the universe. 

“We’re brothers,” Sam offers in a hush, leaning close to Thunderbird so nobody else can hear it. ”So that’d be unnecessarily gross.”

Dean throws his arms out, exasperated and affronted. “What the hell, dingus! This was supposed to be a secret. It _was_ for _eleven_ years!”

“And _what?_ You’re the one who just told him I help you. Don’t you think it’s fair he knows, when I come saving your ass—”

”He just _sits at a computer,”_ Dean interrupts to explain to Thunderbird, who nods, before pointing a finger at Sam, ”and complains about a _sore back._ Uhm, okay, mister! I’d like to see _you_ fall from a rooftop, or get stabbed by an actual demon, or shot with a poison arrow, or be bait for a bitching supervillain or—”

”I got it the first time,” Sam drawls, rolling his eyes. He holds his hand up and makes a blabbering motion, directed as an inside joke at Thunderbird, who doesn’t seem to get the implication, but once again nods politely either way. ”He likes to talk.”

Thunderbird, somehow, someway, looks almost fondly at Dean. ”I agree. I guess I’ve grown to enjoy listening.”

Dean can feel how his face lights up at that. It’s just gentle eyes observing each other then, and in a way, it’s like the rest of the world melts away. 

Thunderbird makes him _happy,_ as well as _super horny_. But one of the two is not like the other. One of the two, precisely the first, happens so rarely it makes Dean breathe a deep, content sigh at the realisation alone. 

He makes him _happy, when skies are grey_ , Johnny Cash comes singing into his mind like a breeze. 

_You’ll never know, dear…_

Sam seems to get the mental memo. It should be part of the routine they came to terms with, back when they were, what, maybe 12 and 16 and Dean was ogling a chick and Sam had to _magically disappear_ for a while. 

(And 16 years old and horny out of his mind is also coincidentally about as good as he feels, now and again when all these _feelings_ start to stir inside.)

”I’m gonna, uh,” Sam flails his arms, searching desperately for words, ”go to the bathroom. I mean. I’ll go do something else. I’m just going. Bye.”

Dean smiles at his chaos, eyes still on Thunderbird. If he didn’t know any better, he thinks he might just be smiling back. 

He hears Sam disappear to talk to some of the girls at the scene and he steps closer to the other vigilante, putting them even more in the comfortable bubble he’s experiencing.

”Want to talk privately?” Dean asks him in a murmur.

His eyes. His blue, blue eyes dart to Dean’s lips. He’s _sure_ they do.

”May I transfer you my preferred way?” he murmurs back, the voice like molasses.

_You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…_

Dean pretends to consider it. ”What the hell”, he shrugs. “Go for it.”

Thunderbird wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist, his touch hot on his skin, and within a second they’re back to the top of the building they were hours earlier, above pizza place and flower shop, above life with all its turmoil. He doesn’t let go immediately, and Dean revels in the feeling, the tiniest touch, before they drop their hands to their sides again. The moment passed.

”Oh hey, my pizza,” Dean calls out. 

He grins back at Thunderbird who’s watching him intently, still that hint of a smile playing on his lips. 

”I guess I could get used to this,” Dean admits. His eyes snap back from his lips to his eyes. ”The travelling, I mean.”

Obviously. Of course. 

”I find it preferable,” Thunderbird replies, studying some very sexy trash on the floor. 

”Well. No traffic jams, I guess.” 

He sits down at the ledge like he had done, looking up at the man before him. His beauty, still, is nothing short of _celestial_. What they accomplished tonight has just been a one out of many times Dean saved someone’s life, and he’s sure it’s the same for Thunderbird, and yet he can’t shake the feeling they really did something good. And maybe it’s because they did it together.

They don’t speak for a moment, just the sound of the wind chiming gently against metal panels. This is quite the rendezvous, huh. He chuffs his boots against the cement below his soles. 

”Hey uh,” Dean starts, clasping his hands; his defences are down. “I was thinking. Why didn’t you heal yourself, that time? In the warehouse? If that’s your thing, I mean.” 

Thunderbird seems concerned. Dean never wanted that happiness to fleet from his beautiful face. ”Some things I can’t explain to you, but that house had writing on it invisible to your eyes. A shield of sorts. It weakened me significantly, and as it turned out, I was drained temporarily of power when we were harmed.”

Dean is almost offended by how outrageous that is. ”So you saved _me_ instead of saving it for _yourself?”_

Thunderbird doesn’t seem to get what the fuss is all about. Dean is turning livid, but woah, fine, deep breaths. 

”God, you _jerk,”_ Dean sighs exasperatedly. ”Why would you do that?”

”It wasn’t a good thing?” Thunderbird questions, a concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows as he steps forward. 

_”No_. I mean yeah, objectively, it _was._ Citizen of the year, good on ya. But now I have to _make it up_ to you, so now I have to save _your_ ass.”

”My ass doesn’t need saving.”

Dean barks a laugh. Now it’s _he_ who makes the choice not to comment on it. But no, no, it clearly doesn’t. His ass is fine. As _fuck._

”Why do I always end up with the looneys?” he murmurs to himself instead. ”For real, where did you come from?”

”I fell.”

Dean snaps his head to the side to stare at him. ”You… You _fell._ ” He shakes his head in confusion, as if to erase his thoughts and try again. ”You- where? When? In the bath and hit your head or what do you _mean_ you _fell?”_

”You might know I’ve been here a while.” Thunderbird actually looks to be reminiscing. ”The newspapers think I took this role from someone, but it was always me.”

Dean thinks of Sam’s research. The old guy… the one who was a hit sensation… 

But wasn’t it in like, great depression thing? 1930’s? So what the hell does that even _mean?_ He’s about to protest, like bro, I can see you’re like a solid 35 years old tops, don’t flatter yourself like that claiming you very well could be 100 and looking so goddamn sexy despite it. That’s some weirdass way to narcissism and you should probably work that out with a professional or something. 

But he stops himself. He can’t even think of what to say - nothing of substance, or lacking in cynicism - so he just stares at him instead, prompting the man to continue. 

”When I fell down it was October 15th, 1929,” Thunderbird continues in the usual, monotone rasp. As if that’s just, a _regular_ thing to say. ”They reported me as a light phenomenon, a falling star. A stone was found and it was called a meteor. It tends to happen.”

Dean kind of can’t breathe. Not that he’s too bothered by that; not when he’s standing in front of a maniac. ”What?”

Those blue eyes meet his green ones. A stormy, uncertain ocean between them. ”You don’t believe me.”

”Well I didn’t say that.”

”It’s what you meant.”

”Don’t tell me you read minds too.”

”Not quite, but I’m getting gradually better at reading people.”

”I’ll drink to that,” Dean huffs, patting his toolbelt for his flask of liquor. ”Actually, no. I should be sober for this so I don’t think it was just a dream tomorrow.” He breathes out, slowly, slowly. _”Why_ are you telling me this?”

”I told you, I trust you. I don’t lie, unlike humans.” And Dean tries to not read too much into that. ”And we’re _partners_ , for crime-fighting purposes... I understand now what you meant.” He smiles timidly. ”You use very strange words sometimes.”

Dean’s throat still feels a little dry, head a little funny. If he’s a fool for letting himself _believe_ this crap, then so be it. He doesn’t have much else left of a choice. 

”So are you saying we’re _friends_ now?”

”If that’s what you’d like to call it.”

Dean breathes out; it could be mistaken for a laugh, but it sounds wrong. 

”Uh, so. Let’s catch me up to speed.” Dean can’t quite look him in the eye, speaking to the cement in front of his feet. He counts the unbelievable deeds on his fingers. ”You’ve been here since 1929. You fell from the sky. You can fly and you can heal.”

”This is correct.”

He slowly tilts his head up, scared for the next punch. ”And the guy we’re looking for…”

”I killed him before,” Thunderbird says promptly, with an edge of resentment. ”It was 57 years ago. What’s really going on, is what you’re wondering? I’m not sure. But it’s all happening again. All in the same places, even when abandoned.” 

He nods in response to when Dean looks up at him in silent disbelief; it’s still true. It really is still true. 

”Well fuck me,” Dean mutters breathlessly. 

”Perhaps another time, I’m trying to explain the situation right now,” Thunderbird husks and Dean flushes pink. “It was Valkyr we saw tonight, who I stabbed. I think he was the one who slit that man’s throat. The writing on the wall… maybe you should know it’s called _Enochian_. It’s a language to ward off, _people like me_ , let’s say. It seems Valkyr must have foreseen that I’d be coming to look for him. I have a reason to believe he’s back to continue what he started.”

Good ole 50’s. Too bad Dean is a normal fucking person and wasn’t _born_ yet. Hell, even his parents hardly were for a good chunk of that decade. 

He memorizes that word - Enochian - and tries not to dwell on details. Tries. 

”And you’re telling me he didn’t die again tonight even though you stabbed the bitch?”

”No, I could tell. It only set him back a bit.”

Dean nods slowly. He thinks he might have to lie down for a second. 

”And he’s not a female dog,” Thunderbird adds offhandedly to Dean’s preference in curse words. 

Which makes Dean laugh, so at least there’s that. Perfect memo he should likely cut down on that term. ”Naughty me, still using words you don’t understand.” He shakes his head at his feet. ”Goddamn. How should I be punished?”

”Perhaps I should restrain you again.”

Dean turns his head up and stares at him with wide, green eyes, lips parting in shock and… whatever else. _Whatever else_ it is that makes heat rush down to between his thighs as he tries to think of what to say in response to that. (Preferably something else than _yes please, sir. Yes please, force me against the wall and nail me hard.)_

”It was a joke,” Thunderbird murmurs in assurance, looking concerned. For his well-being. ”Oh, I must have done it wrong.”

Dean kind of just sputters nervously, looking in the other direction. ”Don’t tease me like that,” he wheezes weakly.

Oh sweet baby Jesus on a bicycle, he is so _hooked._ (Is it really too much to ask if Dean just wants to _bang him?_ Is it? Really?) 

They seem to not even know what to say at that point, which just makes the whole thing even worse. Dean starts to kind of panic as he scavanges in his mind for any offhanded joke at all. Maybe not about his otherworldly sense of conversating finally making sense, or his ethereal, celestial beauty. 

”I’ll heat that up for you,” Thunderbird says suddenly, and Dean wrenches his head to the side when he feels a surge of warmth brush past his slightly trembling thigh. Suddenly steam is welling up from inside the pizza carton he left earlier that night, the wafts of hot cheese and pepperoni making him want to _moan_ for how delicious it smells. 

”Woah, dude. _Thank_ you.”

(Or, if Dean wasn’t so stunned: ”You just melted my _heart_ like you melted that _cheese.”)_

”It’s my pleasure,” the vigilante replies. 

Dean grabs a piece, despite it all; would be a shame to ignore it now. He just witnessed a goddamn miracle. It’s a good distraction, either way. 

The night is so silent now, the sun's first rays seeping in through the dark and colouring the Wichita sky with streaks of orange. In the morning they’ll both be gone, hopefully catching an hour of sleep and Dean will be longing for the smell of leather and steel, for blue eyes and pink lips. 

”Hey, come sit down,” he beckons and Thunderbird joins him on the ledge. He sits stiffly, like he’s unused to his body and it’s so strangely adorable, how he can look at things with both awe and confusion. Something feels different now. It feels like a piece of his soul poured through, and Dean caught it gently; he wants to treasure all he gets to know about him and cherish it. ”Still a no to pizza?”

Thunderbird glances down at it, frowning, and Dean grins. ”It does not entice me.”

”Even after all we’ve been through? Don’t answer that.” Dean picks up a slice and sighs. He holds his breath then, hesitates. ”Do you think you can tell me your name now?” 

He looks doubtful. Dean wants to kiss the wrinkle on his forehead to see if he can make it go away. He wants to let the kisses travel down his tired face. 

Johnny Cash still sings it in his head. _Please don’t take my sunshine away..._

He sticks to his pizza, though, taking a bite. 

”It’s for research,” Dean adds hearsely into the silence. ”A study of who can possibly hate pizza.”

In this moment, as Dean’s eyes linger upon him, Heaven is in his eyes. There are no stars in the city, Dean knows; yet his eyes are reflecting all of them at once, holding constellations. Twinkling lights of a blue, blue galaxy, so far away. 

Dean just wants to reach out and touch. He just wants to be nearer. 

”My name is Castiel,” the man before him says and Dean draws a sharp breath. ”I’m an angel of the Lord.”

So. That’s quite a revelation. 

”Well forgive me Father for I have sinned,” Dean breathes bashfully. 

”What?”

“There’s no such thing,” Dean corrects, louder, like it’s a sanction. He bites too hard sometimes. 

Thunderbird looks wistful. “Again, you don’t believe me?” He raises his eyebrows in a frown, empathetic. “When have I ever lied to you before now?”

Dean can’t count a single time. And that’s what’s so infuriating. He believes him. He really fucking believes him.

He’s an angel. A celestial being. A thing from fairytales. Dean saw a ghost, he fought a ghost, the angel stabbed a ghost.

And now he’s speaking with the angel, who definitely is an angel and angels aren’t real but here the angel is and he’s a motherfucking _angel._ What the hell is going on these days?

”My name is Dean,” he says hoarsely, in response to the introduction, before he can think better of it. ”And I’m just a freakin’ mechanic.”

Thunderbird - Castiel - quirks his lips in what seems to be a genuine smile. Like this is an AA-meeting (which would be, um, Anonymous… Anarchists?) it naturally follows with: ”Hello, Dean.”

And it sends pleasant shivers up his spine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> piecing things together

”How can you kill what’s already dead?”

”I’m asking _you_ that, smartass.”

”Well I’m not an Encyclopedia, Dean,” Sam snaps, pushing back from his laptop. ”God, I don’t even know where to look. Sounds like some dark web illegal stuff.”

”Then you go there and you find it,” Dean demands, pacing the kitchen. ”A man almost died last night. I won’t risk that happening again.”

Sam sighs, sinking back into his chair. He rubs his tired eyes with his knuckles. ”And while some of us went to catch a few hours of sleep last night, some other people I know were busy flirting on a rooftop. The million dollar question is: _when_ are you going to go to bed?”

”I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

”Dude. It’s like 10AM. You’ve been awake for like 24 hours.”

”I run on pure fuel.” Dean pats his stomach obnoxiously. ”Pepperoni pizza. Oh yeah.”

Sam rolls his eyes. ”I’d call it having a ridiculous _crush_ , but go off.” He leans back over his laptop before Dean can defensively counter-argue. ”Do we have any leads at all? Uhm, what about the victim last night?”

”Sure, Peter Jorgenson,” Dean acknowledges. 

Sam clicks into his laptop, the screensaver being the logo of the university he graduated from last year. Such a nerd. ”Did he know anything about why it happened?”

”Nah, he knew nothing, or so he says. Told the cops he woke up in that building and this guy was just there. What was it, Vampira? Valkyr? Uh, whatever.”

”Valkyr then, the warehouse guy.”

Dean waves him off. ”Tomato, potato. And his throat was cut, and then we stormed in.”

”So, Valkyr was the right lead all along? Huh.” Sam frowns. ”And Thunderbird said it was happening like before?”

”As if time was repeating itself,” Dean confirms with a nod. He told Sam everything related to the case, nothing else; Thunderbird’s epic origin story and true name is his secret to keep. Maybe he would benefit from knowing it, but the prospect of leaking such sacred information feels like a crime in loyalty. He’s not that crappy of a person. ”But these victims didn’t live before, like Valkyr did. I don’t think. I dunno.”

Sam hums. He starts tapping at his computer. Dean sinks into the other chair and lets his eyes close for a moment, secretly. His eyelids feel very heavy all of a sudden. 

”Hey, here we go,” Sam exclaims so suddenly Dean nearly falls off his seat. ”It’s a news article about Valkyr, dated November 1949. Wait a sec… Oh, shit.”

_”Language.”_

”He was a gangster, Dean,” Sam continues, ignoring him. His eyes are wide as he turns around to him. ”Wealthy, a crime boss. He was wanted for killing other guys in the business. Competitors, I bet.”

”Huh.” Dean gets up to look over Sam’s shoulder, but it’s so much text his brain gets tired just looking at it. ”What else?”

”Well it doesn’t say much else than that. Let me try something else.”

Dean hums and turns around to yawn silently. Bedtime doesn’t sound all too terrible right about now. It’s Saturday anyway so it’s not like he has anywhere to be. Might just fuel himself by sizzling up some fried up eggs first, since Sammy already had his breakfast, that fucking… avocado on toast with lawnmower clippings on top, which he swears are _herbs, Dean, stop making faces_. Dean will never surrender. 

But oh, it’s crashing into bed that sounds the most irresistible right now. Like, snuggling under warm sheets… yeah, that’s some sweet heavenly bliss. Dean rubs his eyes vigorously and tries not to think of _other_ heavenly things, or _people_. Or snuggling _with_ these heavenly people. (But the heavenly person is possibly the reason he was way too worked up to go to sleep last night, or maybe more so, earlier this morning.)

”September, 1951,” Sam starts to read. ”Thunderbird puts an end to Valkyr.”

That snaps Dean back to reality. 

He looks back on the screen to see a grainy, black and white picture printed on the page. The contrast is whack, it’s all out of focus, and yet he instantly knows. 

”But. That’s—”

”Your boyfriend,” Sam confirms, and Dean can tell by his voice he’s grinning, so he resists slapping the back of his head. ”I mean jeez. You like ’em old, huh?”

Dean blinks at the picture a little more, stunned. 1951, and he’s just the same. There he is in his latex and his coat, the mask concealing his eyes. Nobody knew just how blue those eyes really were. Dean just had the privilege of seeing them up close. 

He stares until Sam opens a new tab and starts a new search. 

Dean crosses his arms and looks down at his socked feet as he thinks. Where has Castiel been these years, while out of the spotlight? In exile? In Heaven? Well, if he fell, maybe he doesn’t know the way back. So where does he go at night?

Dean thinks of the midnight blue suit on the bus. Icy eyes. Electric. Is this the life Castiel chose over crime fighting? Had he tried to retire? Or did the newcomers - like Dean - simply take his spot? 

”Wait,” Sam interjects, ”what did you say the victim’s name was?”

”Uh,” Dean says intelligently, trying to shake off his thoughts. No point in getting too caught up in dreamland. Nothing good ever comes out of that. ”Jorgenson. Peter.”

Sam nods silently. He turns the laptop for Dean to see. It’s a picture of some men in suits, some in parkas, fancy fedoras as was typical of the era. Nothing exciting about it. They’ve just signed some sort of deal. Then he leans in closer and reads their names listed below the picture. 

Somewhere in the middle, Jorgenson sticks out. Eric. Dean scans the rest of the names until he gets to another one he finds oddly familiar: Valentin Kyle. 

His eyes dart back to their faces. Valentin Kyle is an uncanny replica of the entity he saw tonight, the faded man. _Valkyr._ The one who should have died decades ago.

The one Thunderbird already _killed._

And here he is, alive and well. Not much different in the yellowed, black and white photograph than he was when Dean saw him right in front of himself. 

Dean pats Sam on the shoulder as he leans back up. ”I’ll be damned.”

”Yeah, thanks,” Sam grins, ”I know I’m awesome.”

He puts his hand on the back of Sam’s chair, steadying himself. He breathes out heavily as the information sinks in. ”You think Jorgenson in the pic is an heir to Jorgenson of today?”

”I wouldn’t rule it out. Look.” Sam clicks back to the first tab, the article about Valkyr himself. ”Our friend Val was suspected of murdering a businessman - drumroll, please - named Eric freakin’ Jorgenson. Now, taking into consideration the name, time and place…” Sam looks up at Dean for emphasis. ”I think you saved his _grandson_ last night, Deano.”

Dean white-knuckles the chair as he stares at the name. ”Shit.” He turns around and stares out the window. ”So whatever names Thunderbird remembers from back then, whoever he saved, is our one chance of being able to warn the next victim. At least until we figure out how to stop Valkyr.”

Sam nods. ”I’ll have to get familiar with Ancestry,” he supposes and yawns. 

Dean wakes up after 7 hours of restless sleep his body screamed endlessly for, filled with dreams of blue eyes and blood pouring like rain, tossing and thrashing on his camping bed until he’s disturbed by the sound of his phone buzzing obnoxiously. 

He’s immediately bolting upright and grabbing for it, because if someone calls it’s always Sam, because he doesn’t have anyone but Sam, and with Sam it’s almost always trouble. 

Staring at the time on the display for a moment, he’s confused and disoriented he let himself be knocked out for so long; he guesses his brother could tell he really needed it. For his beauty. And crankiness. Then he stares confused at the caller. 

Sam’s contact is simply nicknamed Support, because, one: he’s basically his tech support guy and two: if he should ever end up in a sticky situation, someone can grab his phone and call for support. Simple as that. Nobody else has ever called this phone, and he changes it haphazardly every other week to keep it that way. 

There isn’t a number on the screen. But it’s still ringing. 

He doesn’t say anything as he picks up the phone. He listens to the static and tries to make out what the situation is. An increasingly growing urge is to instantly go and check on Sam, hopefully still in the house and not kidnapped or something. 

”Dean?”

Dean stares into the wall in front of himself for a moment, eyes adjusting and senses slowly waking up. ”Castiel?”

”I’m sorry for this inconvenience,” Thunderbird continues, and Dean is still just trying to wake up and wrap his head around the situation. ”I would fly to your home but I believe this is a questionable breach of security.”

”So you hacked my phone?” Dean groans, rubbing his eyes. ”Jeez, Cas. That’s real considerate of you.”

”I try to be.” Dean smiles at his simple silliness. ”I would like to discuss the next plan of action, now that it’s nighttime once more. Are you decently dressed?”

”I’m never decent,” Dean replies immediately before he gets what he implied. ”Oh, nah, actually you caught me napping. No superhero gear for bedtime so please don’t come peeping through my window or anything because I’m just in my undies over here.”

He barks a laugh, but silence fills the speaker as Dean slowly lets a blush creep into his cheeks in time with the seconds passing. ”I suppose that would be unfortunate,” Castiel husks eventually. 

”I suppose so,” Dean grumbles. He sits up and throws the covers off, looking up through the windows like his paranoia tells him to. ”Look, what if I swing by North MacLean along the river and you can, you know. Pick me up.” Dean smiles secretly to himself as he rubs the back of his neck, keeping himself from chuckling at the prospect. ”Like we’re going to prom - which, by the way, don’t answer. It’s just a joke.”

”I’m aware of the concept. Roughly. We may dance if you wish to teach me how.”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. He stares in front of himself, at his get-up on the chair by the bed. ”Alright, let’s hold that thought,” he murmurs. ”I’ll get dressed and be there in two shakes. Uh, well. I’ll be specific: let’s meet in about 20 minutes.”

”I’ll be there,” Castiel promises before the line rings dead. 

Dean, as it turns out, is a time optimist and struggles greatly with fitting his legs into his pants just because he kind of got maybe a little bit nervous and he ends up stumbling around the bedroom cursing for a while. He goes to check on Sam before he leaves too, asleep on his own camping bed with his laptop on the floor. Dean stops to drape a blanket over him. Then he makes himself a sandwich. Then he bolts out the door and sprints towards his car. 

Judas Priest sings back at him from the old-fashioned stereo about breaking the law, breaking the law, and consequently he makes it there in time regardless, even if it’s accomplished by speeding. As soon as he jumps out from the Impala in its newfound parking spot and rounds the corner to the street, he feels a force take him through the air, and suddenly he’s on top of the building where they met the nights prior. 

”Buy a girl a drink first,” Dean sputters immediately as he doubles over. ”Son of a bitch. I told you this makes me motion sick.”

Castiel looks calmly at him, standing tall in front of him. ”Hello, Demonblade.”

”Yeah, yeah. Formalities, greetings, hola señor.” He collects himself and huffs a breath. ”Are you going to tell me how you got into my phone?” He studies Castiel’s face. ”You know what. Girl’s gotta have her secrets. I bet I wouldn’t understand even if you tried to explain.”

”How much are you willing to bet?”

Dean rolls his eyes and smiles. ”You know, we talked 20 minutes ago, and somehow I already missed you and your quirky weirdness. What did you want to discuss anyway?”

”I was curious about how we should proceed with the case.”

”Well no thanks to you, Trenchcoat, we— I mean, me and my little helper, the tall man, we figured something out last night. Uh, this morning. Doesn’t matter.” 

”I need to interrupt you because now you’re referring to _yourself_. The one we spoke to is the _very_ tall man. You’re simply _tall.”_

”Simply?” Dean huffs. ”Thanks, buddy. I’m 6 feet 1.”

”Yes, and your mistake is excused.”

Dean shakes his head and tries again. ”Moving on,” he sighs. Is this how Sam feels talking to him? At least Dean is still mindly endeared. _”Short version._ Valkyr’s real name is Valentin Kyle, right. I think the victim from last night might have been a grandson to someone he killed before. It’s like a freakin’ legacy thing. You said history was repeating itself?”

”I did,” Castiel confirms, eyes narrowing. ”This would make sense. How do you know?”

”A little birdie called the World Wide Web told me so.”

”Why do you speak to birds?”

Dean’s lips turn into a straight line. ”Okay, note taken, I’ll stop being funny.” He’s about to go on explaining, but furrows his brow and pops his lips. ”But it’s my best character trait so why would you hurt me like that? No, fuck it, so okay anyway...”

Again, he’s about to go on explaining, but—

”I find that your beauty is your best trait,” Cas says, so suddenly it nearly floors Dean. Well, it might have almost-floored him no matter the velocity. Or his current proximity. He stops dead in his tracks and lets the words send shivers over his skin. ”Maybe it’s your honesty and authenticity. No, it must be your altruistic motives, how you always try to do ethically good acts, for others to gain something. You help and you save and you always try to make _me_ feel pleasant emotions. Happiness.” His face softens in a smile. “Somehow, it has worked on several occasions.”

Dean’s lips fall open as he stares at this brave vigilante, previously always so stone cold to him. His heart beats hard, so hard he wonders if it’s even visible through the armor plate. 

When he thinks about it, Thunderbird had - albeit confused - instantly suggested a _marriage_ made more sense than a _business partnership_. Legal in the state, he said. The fact hits him like a ton of bricks in this moment. Because, ultimately, this means he _knows_ of boys who like other boys, and he never jerked back from that. He knows Dean likes boys and it never resulted in a negative emotion. He, literally, broke someone’s hand when they were being blatantly homophobic. 

Dean draws a shaky breath. Never in his life did he expect to feel so many feelings towards another person. He wants to punch him in the face for all he put him up against; bad guys and deep-rooted emotions alike. He wants to throw himself in his arms and kiss him senseless. He wants to lean his head on his shoulder on an early morning bus ride. He wants to cry into his hair and screw all the pain away. 

”Still I see something in you that’s so sad,” Castiel adds with something imploring in his eyes. ”Something you hide. You think badly of it, I can tell. And still, Dean, you’re the greatest human I ever met in all my years on Earth. You have the sweetest soul I have ever seen.”

He wants to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him. 

”Will you ever tell me what makes you so sad?” Castiel asks gently, like it’s a soft caress to a tear-stained cheek. 

”Life is short,” Dean shrugs, voice hoarse, faking a smile but he’s feeling frustrated. With his wounds showing despite desperate attempts to hide them. With Castiel and how he could think such beautiful things about him. ”And it’s sucky. This business is hard and draining. Who _wouldn’t_ be sad?”

Castiel still looks at him like he can read him from the inside out. Dean is so very uncomfortable with showing his frayed edges, his vulnerability. He wants to pretend it all doesn't exist. 

”Maybe I’ll tell you one day,” he decides, which Castiel seems to accept. ”You told me plenty. I owe you that much.”

Dean wants to pretend he never had an abusive dad. That this abusive, alcoholic, dirtbag dad didn’t come home yelling about everything that was Dean’s fault. Almost as much as he wants to pretend he didn’t die soon after their mom did, that he didn’t leave him and Sammy basically orphans on the street soon after he turned fourteen, fending for themselves in a cruel world. That’s how he got acquainted with reality. How he found out what lengths you walk to get a piece of food. How he learned to break and enter. How he found out there were some very bad people out there. 

Dean even wants to pretend he never made a choice to pick up that superhero title one day, thinking he could do some good instead of just hurting. And still, a lot of the time, all he does is hurt. 

At least he can hide it in humour and a tough exterior. 

Although, when presented with this gorgeous man, all that inevitably falls to pieces. (Still. It can’t be too much to ask, like Freddie Mercury sang, to wish to never have been born at all.)

”I have a question, first,” Dean breathes out and Castiel nods. ”I was thinking about it. God, I was thinking a lot.” He takes a second, swallows a lump in his throat. “If you’re an angel, does that mean... Does it mean you’re _dead_ , Cas?”

Dean keeps his eyes locked at him, feeling like they might just be portraying sadness, or dread. The wind whips at him and maybe it’s the reason he feels like they might just betray him and start tearing up. 

Castiel, in turn, looks haunted, though Dean does not know what of. Or what for. ”I don’t remember,” he says quietly. It’s the most honest reply. ”I must have died a long, long time ago.”

The fact sits coldly in Dean’s chest for a moment. 

”Nobody ever asked about me before,” Castiel adds in a murmur, eyes downcast. 

”No?” Dean shifts closer towards him. He resists putting a hand on his arm, scared it would come on too strong. Scared he’d seem to be taking advantage somehow, or scared of scaring him away. ”Well I, honestly I just really care about you, man. Which I guess I— well, fuck it. I want to know if I can help in _any_ way.” 

Castiel looks at him puzzlingly. ”I don’t care if Heaven wants me or if it won’t have me at all. This is my home now.”

”That’s not what I mean, baby,” Dean murmurs softly and Castiel’s eyes seem to light up. ”In life in general. Not just in our secret nighttime one. If I can help at all, hell, just call me. Like I said, I owe you that much, Feathers. You helped me countless times already.” He nods when Castiel looks up at him questioningly. ”And yeah, I really mean that. I’ll drop everything, to hell with what I’m doing. You know, I _really—”_

Then his phone rings.

Dean glares down at his toolbelt - it needs to have a serious talk about interruption - then picks it up and answers Support. 

”I’m in a meeting,” Dean informs Sam flatly.

”You went out, you dick? I was going to tell you about what I found.”

Dean looks up at Cas, still watching him silently. ”Can my buddy hear this too?”

”Yeah, put me on speaker?”

Dean does as told, not wasting a second of the time. ”Shoot.”

”Hello, Thunderbird,” Sam says through the speaker and Castiel flicks his eyes up at Dean, who in turn makes sure to look certain. ”If you remember, we talked yesterday. I’ve found some info about the case that could be helpful.”

”Do we trust the very tall man with this matter, Freckles?” Castiel asks Dean. 

”Very much,” Dean confirms, holding back a surprised laugh. He supposes that’s what he deserves after all the nicknames. Shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you, though, but he doesn’t feel snarky enough to say it. 

”I can hear you two, you know,” Sam drawls. ” _Lovebirds_. Anyway.”

”Again, why do you speak to birds?” Cas whispers to Dean, who’s feeling appreciative the meaning of the word went over his head, and that he didn’t need to explain it. 

Sam clears his throat. ”I found out some more stuff, so here goes nothing. Valkyr sounds a lot like Valentin Kyle, and I wondered about which name came first, if Kyle was a pseudonym. Well Valkyr sounds a lot like _valkyria_ , don’t you think?”

Dean nods his head from side to side. ”Vaguely, I guess. Why?”

”I just found a bunch of lore about it,” Sam continues. ”It’s nordic stuff, like Scandinavia, you know the vikings. So we’re talking Norse, mythological creatures that are said to bring the dead soldiers from the battlefield. The valkyries would take their souls to Valhalla, which was kind of their version of Heaven for fallen soldiers. Usually they’re women, or, anyway, depicted as women—”

”The point, bud?”

Sam catches his breath. ”I was thinking, what if Valkyr doesn’t _kill?_ What if he just _collects?”_

Dean looks up with wide eyes at Thunderbird. His expression is mirrored. 

”Then who’s the _killer?”_ Dean asks, mostly to himself. 

”The million dollar question,” says Sam in defeat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arrangements

They hang up the call again after a moment, following how Sam confirms he found out the other businessmen who have been found dead were indeed related to men in the same line of work, way back in the day. 

So that means there’s a pattern, the next of kin to men in Valkyr’s circle way back in the day being hunted and killed. So now it’s just a matter of tracing it. Predicting the next blow. 

They stand in silence as Dean looks down at the black display of his phone. 

This just raised a lot of new questions. 

”You work well together,” Thunderbird points out when he drops his phone back in his toolbelt. 

”Years of practice,” Dean tells him. Being siblings, it’s kind of obvious. ”I know I give him a lot of shit but, really, that’s my lifeline. He’s really the one to praise about anything I contributed with logically. He’s great at research, brought me out of a lot of sticky situations. Me, I kinda just punch things and hope for the best.”

_So don’t say those nice things about me,_ he wants to say. _Don’t even think them, because I’m not that good._

The city depends on him. This is what he reminds himself everytime he gets lost in those eyes. There’s no time to get hooked up on feelings for another superhero in a black latex suit, who’s maybe possibly dead, and definitely an angel who somehow fell from the sky, and possesses powers unknown to man so strong he could probably be an atom bomb. But hell, he doesn’t care about that. 

”And we figured we had to ask you,” Dean continues, masking his inner turmoil with a voice that feigns stability, sometimes harshness, ”if you remember any names at all of who you saved before, when this was happening. If it’s going to keep the pattern, it’s someone in their next of kin whose life is at stake.”

Thunderbird nods silently. ”We just have to know who’s killing them.” He shrugs half-heartedly. ”And now I’m the one who feels worthless.”

”Why?” Dean demands immediately, defenses dropping as he turns concerned. 

”I brought you into danger on numerous occasions,” Castiel says to the sky. ”Now we’ve been set back on our lead, which I immediately sought after. I shouldn’t have been impulsive just because I thought I knew.”

He looks so sad it makes Dean’s chest ache. ”Don’t beat yourself down like that, man,” he says weakly. 

”I don’t even seem to have killed him properly the last time.” His voice is like gravel. ”I’ve let people die. I’ve also put your life on the line, and I feel deep regret. I’m sorry, Dean.”

”Hey, stop that,” Dean rushes. ”I’m okay. We’re okay.”

He’ll blame it on the rain starting to drop, the way his eyes are tearing up again. He’ll blame whoever started this shit for putting them into this piss poor situation, and he’ll be sure to track them down and ruin their life for good. 

He takes Castiel’s hands in his; they’re so cold from the air, even when gloved, and he wants to warm them up. His eyes widen and Dean squeezes them gently in his with a look of determination. 

”Now let’s go find that jackass,” he grumbles. 

Dean is about to let go, forget he even did it, but—

“First,” Cas says and doesn’t allow him to drop his hands. “What about our prom?”

Dean wets his lips, lets them fall open and then stay that way. He forgot he even made that joke. And it was. A _joke_. And still. 

He stares at the man in front of him. This strong, amazing, heroic badass motherfucker with the softest heart and strangest little mind. He holds his hands tighter. “You want to _dance?”_

“It’s required,” Castiel informs him, very seriously. But then he lights up in a meek smile. “I’d like to know how to.”

Dean takes a sobering breath. It does nothing for him; he still feels dizzy as he places Castiel’s hands on his hips, putting his own on his waist too, beneath the trenchcoat. If they’re going to learn to dance, he might as well do it properly, like there’s no tomorrow. No bullshit, too-straight-for-this excuse of a dance. It’s meant to be intimate. 

_You are my sunshine…_ sings Johnny Cash still in his head, _My only sunshine…_

He makes sure to scan his face, makes sure he’s not overstepping. If he changes his mind, Dean will instantly walk away. 

He feels his toned body under the bodysuit, latex against his gloved fingers. Warmth comes seeping through and drenching his entire body as his heart rattles his chest with warm, fuzzy, stupid feelings. 

“Sway,” he murmurs as an instruction, tilting his head down to check their feets’ position; he doesn’t estimate they’ll risk stepping on each others’ toes, at least. “That’s all you gotta do. Would be better with some music, like _Hungry Eyes_ or some other lame 80’s bop. And a better climate, but hey.”

”Fine like this,” Cas tells him intently. 

”Yeah,” Dean chuckles quietly, mesmerized by his eyes for the millionth time. He’ll be mesmerized a million times more, he’s sure. ”Fine like this. I’ll take it anyday, over anything else.”

They start to rock from side to side together, making a slow dance out of it. Dean’s eyes fall repeatedly on Cas’ lips, so close to his own, still behind the mask, until he gives up and lets his gaze stay there for good. He’s not sure he can tell anyway. This is fine. Dean is burning up from inside out, but this is totally fine.

His heart is doing somersaults and backflips and ninja kicks into outer space as he dances with the most beautiful man he knows. He can’t believe he has the privilege to, to touch him, to be close to him. To see Castiel’s soft smile and realise his eyes are resting on his lips as well.

“Dean,” Cas whispers suddenly. “Can I see you?”

Dean’s heart is beating dangerously hard. Probably. It should be illegal to be so into someone. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Cas,” he murmurs and realises he sounds like he’s using a bedroom voice, low and soft and on the brink of whispering, intoxicated by the infatuation. 

Castiel nods his head from side to side, like he must have seen Dean do. Dean smiles at the fact he’s so goddamn adorable. “Maybe you can just bring your mask up a little,” he suggests. ”You’ve already done this once previously. You see me all the time.”

“Just a sneak peek?” Dean grins. He takes his hands away from warm Cas’ body and rolls his balaclava up with shaky fingers over his mouth, stopping just below his nose. “I guess you can get to see I’m grinning like an idiot right now.”

Castiel kisses him. It makes Dean’s stomach jump, and for a second he forgets to close his eyes, staring at him as their lips close. His legs turn to fucking jelly and oh my fucking god, he’s kissing him and Dean is kissing back and Dean is wrapping his arms around him so he can’t let him go.

Castiel’s hands travel up his back from his waist, fingertips on his clothed skin, exploring, sensing. Dean brings one of his own into his hair and runs his fingers through it, strands shifting in silver and black this time of night. It’s a little wet from the rain and he doesn’t care. Their lips are a little cold and the scruff brushes his skin and he doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

When they stumble back after another moment, they just stare at each other, catching their breaths.

”Sorry if that was unwelcome,” Cas gasps, a deep blush on his cheeks. His lips wet and darker pink and so goddamn irresistible. ”I’m not well-versed, I mean I’ve _of course_ been studying how to do it but my research was not very extensive, and I really wanted to try this with _you_ and perhaps I rushed—”

Dean silences him with another kiss. Cas makes a sound against his lips, surely a muffled word but to Dean it could as well be a moan. Then Cas kisses him back harder, trying, figuring it out, and pulls Dean closer to himself by his waist. Dean lets himself be manhandled very gratefully, moaning back against his lips to prove he can do even more than that. 

Dean bites his lip playfully, experimentally; he pulls on his hair to see if he can wake more sounds out of him. When he feels Cas’ thigh inch closer between his legs Dean whimpers instead, making Cas’ fingers hungrily dig into his skin, breathing harder between them. Wanting more, more, more. 

It’s another few moments until they pull away that time. Slowly, like they don’t want to; they _really_ don’t. Their eyes flutter open to reveal gorgeous sights. 

”We should pick back up on that later,” Dean tells him, unable to let his hands stop touching him. He feels how wide his eyes are, he can only imagine how fucked out he looks from literally _just_ making out. 

His cock is greedily aching against the protective gear and _god dammit_ , he just wants to kiss his neck. He wants to grind his hips filthily against his. He wants Cas’ unexplainable telekinesis bullshit to push him up against the wall and for him to fuck him hard against it until he’s sobbing his name while he’s coming into his hand. 

God, he just wants everything. All at once. And he can’t have any of it because they’re on a roof and they’re very exposed to danger and logically not even supposed to be referring to each other by first names. 

He’ll stick to reveling in the fact Castiel’s hand still around his wrist, but god, it can’t end like this. He won’t allow it to. 

”Agreed,” Castiel affirms breathlessly. His hair is so screwed up and lips so kissed raw, he looks like he’s had sex. Which is quite the sight for sore eyes, but it’s just that Dean is kind of very thorough, and handsy and messy and a little bit rough. In turn, he hopes Cas learns to do the same to him. ”I have some more ideas in mind, as well.”

Dean’s stomach twists like a wet rag from horniness, Jesus fucking christ. ”There are a few things that aren’t really socially acceptable to get down to on a rooftop,” he reminds Castiel. And himself. And especially his fellow downstairs. 

”I understand. Perhaps some arrangements can be made.” Castiel grins; sometimes Dean wonders if he teases him on purpose.

“I bet you could take us to my bedroom in a heartbeat,” Dean says and something flashes over Cas’ eyes. “Well, still no, I don’t _actually bet—”_

But he doesn’t finish his sentence because he merely blinks and then he’s stumbling into his bedroom. It’s as he left it; terrible and untidy, bed sheets wrinkled from uneasy dreams about the man now standing in the middle of it, taking in his environment with deep interest.

“Holy fucking shit,” Dean breathes, regaining his balance. So it’s established: this piece of shit angel has way too much power and knows way too much, by seemingly just touching him. (Maybe he _literally_ touches his heart as much as he figuratively seems to.)

“Dean?” Sam calls and Dean snaps his head to the door. “Did you really just jump through the window? The front door’s open, jackass.”

“Uh, a little busy here,” Dean calls and then turns to Castiel in horror. He lowers his voice: “It’s my brother, tall guy, he shouldn’t— shit, don’t speak, oh my fucking god.” Dean is still hard when he stumbles towards the door and locks it. “Privacy, please! I need to do something.”

“Ew,” Sam shrieks immediately. “Turn on some music if you’re going to be gross, for the love of all that’s holy. I’m _leaving!”_

Dean doesn’t have to even move. Suddenly his cassette player crackles and the next best mixtape from his self-made collection starts playing loudly. It’s _I Was Made For Lovin' You_ by Kiss that fills the room with a hot, rhythmic guitar strumming, a soundtrack for sex as good as it gets. Dean turns slowly to Cas, who looks smug as all hell as he throws his trenchcoat aside, baring his lean, muscular body wrapped up in shiny latex. Like _oh, me? Yeah, I’m awesome._

“You’re an ass,” Dean informs him in a groan and attacks him with a hard and intentious kiss.

They work fast while the music thumps loud, as if they’re on a time limit. Which they kind of are, because the city needs its defenders and all that. Dean just needs to tend to the very annoying pulsing between his legs first, and when he pushes his hand down in front of Castiel’s crotch, with a sharp intake of breath from the both of them, he feels him hardening beneath his palm. 

His head spins like it’s going in an orbit around the Earth and back, getting to feel him, hear him, taste. He can’t believe he lucked the fuck out like this.

Castiel is methodical, Dean thinks, as he pushes him harshly up against the wall and Dean moans against his lips. He hits it with a thud that could have frames falling off the walls if he had any, and Dean is reminded very suddenly of his strength (and that Sam is very likely packing up his laptop and leaving promptly). He wants that strength to do things to him nobody else has. He doesn’t know what exactly, in his very delirious little brain, but. He’s sure they’ll figure something out. They can play around. There’s still time. Heat rises in his face at all the devilish ideas. 

He hooks a leg around Castiel and their bodies brush harshly together, erections throbbing and hard beneath the gear. “Fuck, we have to get this off,” Dean grumbles, feeling out of breath already.

Castiel rubs against him again, seemingly lost in the pleasure and momentum. Dean moans against his neck, hand coming up to grip at his hair, clenching his fist into the strands. He feels Castiel’s breath hot on his neck, his hand coming up underneath Dean’s shirt. He feels how badly he wants it too.

“We can keep the masks,” Dean whispers in his ear, trying to be more persuasive. His own is still just rolled up over his mouth, maybe exposing vital traits like his jaw and lips and dusted out freckles, but fuck it. “You just go ahead and undress me, mister. We’ll work it out as we go. Unless, you don’t want to?”

“I want to,” Cas confirms with a groan, but can’t seem to stop touching his body, fingers ghosting below his waistband. Like he wants so much but doesn’t know how to get it. 

“Easy, tiger,” Dean chuckles and kisses his neck, turning into sucking hard on the skin. His hands slide down his arms, feeling his muscles work and shift beneath the layer of latex. ”We can’t have sex with all these clothes on. Stop trying.”

Dean smirks devilishly against Cas’ skin as he feels his eager, nimble hands start to mess with unbuckling Dean’s toolbelt. 

”How many years of knowledge exactly, and you didn’t know this?”

”I’m well aware,” Cas practically growls, struggling with the function of his belt. ”There weren’t that many along the way worth the… hassle. But I’ll have you know it’s been centuries.”

And what a hassle it is. Human emotions, bodies and clothing must be one hell of a conundrum. Tricky, like shower sex, like who goes where and oh I’m slipping. Dean grins. 

So then Dean nibbles on his neck, getting a sigh of basically pure desperation in return. He rocks his hips, just to try to tease him, make it harder to unbuckle him. Oh yeah, he thinks he’s being _very funny_. But. 

This is when he gets suddenly pinned back to the wall in a different way, as he feels a force push him back by the shoulders, how it tilts his head back slightly as he looks down at Cas with half-lidded eyes. Dean just grins wider as he sees how Cas’ darken with wants and needs, finally taking control while his hands can stay busy elsewhere. 

And goddamn, Dean loves being restrained. 

When the song fades _Gimme All Your Lovin’_ comes on next and, even with Dean’s annoyance out of the way, Cas eventually makes the belt drop with a swipe of his hand through the air. It falls together with the rest of what he props onto himself, breastplate, shoulder armor, the whole shebang. Cas seems to allow it when Dean eagerly pulls the black long-sleeve over his head and he throws it across the room. Dean bites his lip, strapped back in now-unbuttoned pants, laced up boots and boxers, the only things remaining from that quickfire strip poker.

”What now?” Castiel rasps, beyond thought and reasoning. His lips are parted and eyes mesmerized as he looks over Dean’s body. 

It’s lean and muscular, for sure, but nonetheless covered in scars, burns, bruises, dental floss stitches. Memories of bad guys from his career or from his childhood alike. But Cas doesn’t seem to see the ugliness Dean can easily point out. He still looks as if he’s seeing the most attractive thing he ever did see. Still. 

”I want you to fuck me,” Dean tells him through the smirk, watching him take a breath. He fumbles at the front of Cas’ suit with hands not yet restrained, so that Cas moves closer, into the touch. ”But I don’t know if I’d be breaking some sort of laws of the universe. You know. Cosmic police coming for my ass because I slept with an angel.” 

”I’m not aware of these and I don’t believe they exist,” Cas murmurs as Dean rubs his hard cock through the shiny fabric, voice becoming huskier, breathing ragged, ”but I’d give that up to touch you.”

”Well, I feel pretty convinced then,” Dean says as Cas brackets his arms on either side of him against the wall. Then one hand comes down to rub Dean in front of his tenting boxers and his head falls back with a moan. _”God,_ alright, little heads up though. Info box. Humans are tricky, and sex is kind of a lot of work.” Castiel furrows his brow and Dean nods. ”And I _really_ want this to happen, right now immediately. So…” 

Dean’s hands start working to find a zip on his suit, because it needs to come off. Now. Castiel heaves the burden off of him and unzips it quickly - thank fucking Christ almighty it’s a two-piece - so that Dean’s hand comes underneath the fabric and finds his hard cock, Castiel stuttering breath; a sign he’s doing something right. 

His other hand travels up underneath the top part, fingers brushing past rippling muscles, lifts it to see plains of fair skin, faintly red welts where the seams on the tight latex have been making imprints on his soft skin. It’s just not fair to wear such a tight suit. Dean has been teased mercilessly for too long. 

”Let’s say, if our mission goes well,” Dean continues, ”we screw in victory tonight. You can take your time, be thorough...” Castiel attaches his lips to his neck and Dean moans. With his hand working on his dick at the same time, it’s too good to be true. ”Then, when I’m good to go, you nail me hard.” Castiel bites down on his skin. ”Yeah, fuck, you can do me rough, and I’ll take it, I’ll love it, you’ll love it too. And it will be _so_ worth it.”

”I like this plan,” Castiel tells him against his skin, hips moving rhythmically into his touch and driving Dean crazier and crazier, as if it was even possible to begin with. ”Better than your other ones.”

”Thanks. Now please, sir, take us both in your hand so we can get somewhere.”

Dean takes himself out of his boxers while he speaks, and with Cas’ forehead leaned against Dean’s shoulder he can only imagine what his face looks like now. Dean wouldn’t admit to it, but the sounds he makes are definitely going high-strung as Cas does as told, wrapping a large hand around both of them; if the size of his hands were a turn-on before, it gets him a step closer to spontaneously incinerating with what they can fit in them. 

Dean splays his own hand over Cas’ and guides him slowly, spreading the precum so that he has to bite back a moan. ”That’s what you want, huh?” he murmurs and grips Cas’ arm instead when he starts moving hid hand on his own. ”Yeah, yeah. _Fuck_ yeah, you keep on going, baby. Just like that.”

With slick sounds he jerks his hand along their lengths and Dean’s thighs start to fucking quiever, so close to coming already. Dean curses and wrenches his head back, exposing his neck again for Cas’ sinister lips to suck more dark red marks. Like claiming he’s his. 

Cas takes his other hand and grips tightly behind Dean’s thigh, lifts his leg up and Dean hooks it around his waist. Like he knows exactly what he wants and he’ll take whatever he can get, which is to say all of it, and Dean just relishes in the warmth, the wetness, the all-consuming feeling of him all around him, hard against him. As if he’s there, right there on every part of his sensitive body at once. 

Hips bucking mindlessly into his stroking hand, wanting more, more, he wets his lips with eyes squeezed shut. ”I’m gonna come, _fuck_ , please come for me too. I want you to come, lemme make you...” Dean gasps, rutting into the touch as Cas bites down on his neck. ”Please, _please—”_

He comes so hard, it could have burst the lightbulbs in the room (but he’s not the one with that kind of power). Silently, open-mouthed, shuddering and thrusting sloppily into Cas’ wonderous hand through the aftershocks seizing his whole body. He exhales in a groan, unmistakably close to an actual porn noise. He kind of feels like he’s starring in one. 

Miraculously, still coming down from the high it’s clear Cas has followed not soon after, fingers digging into his skin and moving his hand faster until he’s just groaning against his neck, vibrations going through his body, spilling hotly over their bodies. He could as well get hard all over again. He won’t. But it’s almost hard to resist not to, spent dick twitching encouragingly at the sounds. 

Whatever holds him up against the wall releases its grip slowly so that Dean has to resist just, like, collapsing against Castiel. He could take it, he would catch him, but whatever. He relaxes and stands breathing hard until he breaks out into a chuckle. 

”So that was kinda hot,” he says breathlessly into Castiel’s shoulder.

He raises his head just to catch a glimpse of Cas’ flushed cheeks and adorably big, dopey grin. The mixtape has moved on to _Shook Me All Night Long_ because, what can he say, he has great taste. 

”This was good for you?” Cas asks, eyes big, and Dean is very happy to report he’s definitely still ruggedly sexy. ”You’re feeling happy?”

”Oh I’m just peachy, Cas,” Dean grins, arms around his waist. His skin so warm under his touch, making him feel fluttery inside, despite being totally fucked out and suddenly a little awkward about the jizz on Cas’ hand. His jizz. Cas just made him come and his jizz is on his hand, oh god. ”Ten outta ten.”

”That’s comforting news. I’m myself already looking forward to later,” Castiel says, blinking owlishly like he can’t believe he said it out loud. He pulls away a bit, studying his hand. ”For now, though.” The sticky remains of their very romantic moment vanishes from his palm, just like that. He clenches it to a fist. ”Let’s go kick some ass.” 

Dean scrunches his nose up in silent disagreement. He’d rather stay here, being warm, happy and useless. 

Cas smiles shyly at him. ”Did I not say that right?”

”I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dean says in awe. He runs a hand through Castiel’s hair to fix it. Or ruin it more. The way he likes it to be, anyway. ”Okey dokey, Hellblazer, go get your coat... Let’s rock and roll.”

Castiel looks confused. ”I don’t think it will be necessary to,” he does air quotes, ”sway repeatedly and do somersaults?” 

Dean ignores him and, almost menacingly, decides to _boop_ his nose. It stuns Cas enough to let Dean move away and pull his gear back on, smirking triumphantly. 

Time to find the next potential victim. 

Priorities, priorities.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> endgame

The next potential victim turns out to be someone who had their father pictured in the newspaper article with Valentin Kyle. Apparently they were close partners, and Randy Slade is tracked down by some sort of angelic power Dean won’t even bother to ask about. Look, he’s just had enough information for one day, and the most self-indulgent was definitely how Castiel’s muscles looked flexing with their cocks spilling over his large hand, so that’s admittedly where Dean’s mind is at while they show up, still a little dazed, still a little post-sex pliant. 

His mind snaps back to reality when he realises it’s a goddamn _mansion._

He whistles an impressed tone. ”Damn. Dude got style.”

”Wealth doesn’t correlate one’s sense of organizing trends and patterns in an aesthetically pleasing way.” Castiel lets his eyes travel down Dean’s body, which appears to be for _emphasis._

Dean stops him by rolling his eyes. ”If you’re going to say it’s _evident_ by looking at _me,”_ he grits out, ”then don’t say anything at all.”

”I was in fact going to say you’re doing well for yourself,” Cas tells him solemnly. ”I would call your outfit a very wise stylistic choice… which is also not corresponding with your economy, which however, _evidently_ , is not the best. Based on your residency.”

”Yeah well,” Dean mutters, refusing to get flustered just because he likes Cas a little more right now than he did last week. ”Rich dudes kind of scare me anyway. Life fast, eat trash, I say. I couldn’t save up to this even if I tried to be frugal.”

”I don’t see the point of considering this hypothetical future. I find enough comfort in your bedroom as it is currently.”

And down the drain go the plans of not getting flustered as Dean imagines Castiel back in his bedroom, doing more sacreligious things in each others’ company. Trying everything. The bed, for one. That’s a given they kind of missed. 

Taken aback, he looks up at the sky on a whim. ”Stars,” he mumbles, because this far out of the city there’s a lack of light that allows them to shine. ”Heh. I’ll never look at a falling one the same way ever again.”

”Why would you have looked at them in any particular way?”

”You’re kidding me? Usually people make wishes at stars. You know, to bring luck.”

”Luck doesn’t exist. It’s pure chance.”

”Well,” Dean mutters, ”I’ve felt pretty lucky lately, if you ask me.” He doesn’t elaborate. ”Uh, but I was never one for wishing and praying and stuff like that, anyways. So I guess you’re onto something there.”

”And why not partake in the customs?” Castiel inquires softly.

Dean shrugs. ”Bad things happen anyway.”

Castiel looks at him closely. Dean feels stripped down, bearing his heart, beating warm and hard. 

He’s scared, to be honest. A little too close to terrified. He cares so damn much about Castiel now, and goddamn it, he should have never allowed himself to get so close, he should have never allowed himself to feel. Because now the nagging thought of _but what if I lose him?_ sits like a dagger in his chest, ice cold and pounding with pain. 

What if they don’t make it, this time? This time when he really, really matters? 

”Let’s just get inside,” Dean mumbles and walks on. He mentally slaps himself for the accidental pun - if Cas could just _get inside_ , to go with the other irreligious mental pictures - but whatever. 

He’s really not helping himself be professional here.

”I should tell you,” Castiel adds before they reach the fence surrounding the building, ”something is compromising my strength. I guess, weakening me.”

”The Enochian shit?” Dean questions, spinning around towards him on the cold, moon-lit gravel. 

”Yes,” Cas confirms, ”if you remember so well. So I worry that I won’t be of my most use. But I’ll still try for you.” It doesn’t make any of Dean’s fears subdue; they erupt instead, as sudden as a Jack-in-the-box. Cas, of course, is unphased. ”Let’s go.”

Dean makes himself secretly smile at how he still follows him. Still, it seems he could follow him through Hell and back. His expression turns wry as he stalks up to the fence surrounding the building and remembers reality. 

Castiel saves up on Thunderbird mojo for a potentially dangerous situation and joins Dean in stealthily climbing the fence before they walk in through the door, which stands unlocked. This could be seen as fantastic hospitality if they didn’t know better. 

Prepared for a hostage situation or something else, they sneak cautiously inside the home. 

All the blinding lights come on at once as they walk into the middle of the entrance hall. Two large and mirrored staircases lead from the marble floor they find themselves standing on, connecting to an upper floor, and when they hear a sound from overhead, Dean realises with a start they’re standing underneath a huge, brass chandelier covered in crystals and lights. 

A chandelier, that suddenly starts to fall towards them. 

Dean doesn’t get enough time to consider the options. 

Suddenly he’s back at the entrance of the house and when he realises what just happened, a deafening _crash_ shakes the floor. When his eyes focus again, the chandelier has crashed into the marble floor, Castiel somewhere underneath in the rubble and broken glass. Dean can’t fucking see him. 

_”Thunderbird!”_ Dean roars in panic and starts forward, but a voice is heard from where the staircases meet the upper floor. 

”I wouldn’t do that unless you want to join your friend.” While Dean tries to find the source in the turmoil and flying sawdust, he sees hands wrap casually around the railing of the staircase upstairs. ”Is that your formal title, by the way? You seem to be a little closer from what I’ve gathered. Maybe I’ve hit a sore spot.”

Dean’s heart is pounding, blood soaring in his ears. He tries not to look at the demolished chandelier and the cracks in the floor as the threat of tears start to close off his throat, threatening to waver the stability he usually can keep at bay. ”Who the _hell_ are you?”

”How rude of you, Demonblade. You’re in my house and don’t even know to thank me.”

”Randy Slade?” Dean questions to receive a smirk in reply. But this doesn’t make _sense._ Dean may suck at math but Slade should definitely be around 70 years old if he had a _father_ pictured with Valkyr, because the father absolutely died way back in the day, in the 50’s. ”Are you safe? Who’s in here? Who did this?”

”Sheesh, one question at a time, little boy. I’ll answer one of them for your pleasure, but please ask more nicely next time.” Slade’s face is distorted with a menacing grin from ear to ear. ”I pulled this trick from up my sleeve, so now I do hope you enjoyed the little show. Very predictable if only you’d paid attention.”

Dean clenches his fists in rage. He doesn’t care who this guy is, what he’s doing; he’s letting Cas die on the floor! Dean is sure it was him who put them in that position in the first place, so, is it a set-up? He’s not sure, but fuck everything, because he’s not going to play nicely from this point on until he gets his way and can see if Cas is even still _with_ him. 

Please, _please_ oh please, don’t take his _sunshine_ away. 

_”Why_ are you doing this?” Dean chides, trying to keep his voice from shaking with rage or fear. 

The murderer puts on a fake coy expression. ”Is this when I have my grandiose villain explanation moment?” 

”Answer the fucking question or you’ll be chop suey,” Dean bellows, pulling out a sharp, long blade with a noise that rings around the open area.

Slade is still calm as ever. Infuriatingly so. It’s on purpose. ”Is pure _fun_ a legitimate answer for you?”

”No,” Dean seethes, scanning for his best plan of action. He grips the blade handle so hard his knuckles crack. ”Everyone has a motive. Even a bitch like you.”

”Then what’s yours, superboy? Why do you fight crime?” Dean snaps his head back to him and Slade casually waves his hand as he explains. ”Hero syndrome? _Daddy issues?”_ He raises his eyebrow at Dean clenching his jaw and saying nothing. ”Oh I see, I’m getting warmer, aren’t I?”

Dean feels so full of red hot fury, he decides a plan of action can go fuck itself. He’ll bolt up those stairs and stab the fucker until he’s begging for mercy, and he’ll be the one to refuse to give it to him. ”Show you mine if you show me yours?”

”Sounds fair.” He clicks his fingers. ”Too bad I don’t play fair.”

Dean feels the cold before he has time to turn around. The next second it’s like someone hits him with a log and he’s flung across the room. He lands hard on the marble and slides along the polished, squeaky surface until he hits the wall. He tilts his head up to find Valkyr standing there. _God fucking dammit._

”Summoning spirits is surprisingly easy,” Slade says breezily as Dean scrambles up from nearly cracked kneecaps and stares at the entity in front of him, eyes wide and terrified as he stares into dead ones. ”If you have something that belonged to them, anyway. My dad, he was a good man, a good friend to him, so he was gifted a lighter.” Slade clicks the flame on in his hand. ”It was passed on to me after he, in turn, also died. Very tragic story.”

Valkyr bolts forward and Dean has to wrestle himself free. He tries to slash after him with his knife, but it’s like cutting into mist; nothing much really happens and panic begins to set for real like cold ice in his chest. With blood pulsing and hands trembling he keeps trying to impact different parts of his body. Nothing, nothing, seriously _nothing_ works and no matter how hard he tries.

“My _dad_ , well.” Slade chortles, as if unaware of Dean feigning for his life, scared to death. “He found out Valkyr’s powers just as I did. Business partners, killing the guys around them, it got a little _suspicious_. So, you know, I was a bright young man back then. I had him _killed_ to inherit the fortune they gathered. Taa-daa.”

Valkyr starts hitting Dean all over his body, has him trashing back against the wall. He’s inhumanly strong - which makes total sense, fucking unfortunately - and Dean sees the handle of a knife, sword or something else that’s very bad news if he was to puncture Dean’s neck with it sitting in the waistband of his pants, before he punches his jaw and his vision betrays him, ears starting to ring.

“They say money can’t buy you happiness. But I gotta say, sport, I’m pretty damn ecstatic about this house, this body. This life. Look around you, if you get a moment - oops, watch out there, superboy.” Dean ducks another blow and spits out blood. “It’s good up here at the top, isn’t it? Comfortable.”

Dean can’t evade much longer and takes punch after punch, Slade’s voice growing distant. He can’t control the sobs that start to wreck his body, shaking against the cold wall as blood spills onto his boots. The disturbing sounds of his own body being beaten to a pulp. 

In the midst of it all, he feels like he feels a presence. A white light. Maybe this is it, he thinks, the edges of his vision whiting out as the all-consuming pain fades out. Maybe death has come for him at last. And for what? _Stupidity?_ Is he going to die being beaten to death and not even finishing the fucking case that brought it on? Will he never tell Cas how fucking badly he _likes_ him?

He feels tears mix with the blood rolling down his face; broken lip, broken nose, black eyed and bruised. Will angels come to collect him? Will Valkyr? Wouldn’t that be ironic?

“It lasted for a long time, but it was wearing thin. It was only natural I should bring back the one to do all the dirty work for me, like he did for my bastard father. And, I know Thunderbird boy over here killed this idiot currently punching your guts out, so he had to go first.” He sneers. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not sorry,” a rasping voice rings out.

Dean’s senses wake to life and he stares up at the top floor just as Castiel plunges his switchblade into Slade’s neck. 

Slade roars in pain, or anger, or pure hysteria as he grips aimlessly behind himself. It gives Castiel time to grab the lighter he showcased earlier and throws it hard in Dean’s direction.

“Light the bastard up!” Thunderbird orders and Dean miraculously catches the lighter in his trembling hand. Valkyr seems as shocked as he is; the next second, Dean is clicking life into a flame and placing it to his old-fashioned suit, which immediately sets ablaze.

The entity stumbles back, flames burning high. Dean blinks through blurred out eyes as sparks fly and start to catch onto the staircase.

“No!” Slade bellows, starting to punch after Castiel, but he’s gone.

And he’s by Dean’s side. And he’s grabbing the lighter from his weakened hand, throwing it into the fire in front of them, watching a small explosion begin to expand before Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist and it all fades out like an old cartoon closing the black circle on the ending scene. 

And, he must pass out after that. 

Because when he opens his eyes, he feels sluggish, achey, _terrible_ , like he’s _hungover_ and got into a _car crash_ at the _same time_ , staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He starts coughing and it feels like being punched in the ribs. 

“Don’t move.” It’s Sam who orders him. He’s dabbing at his wounds with pads doused in alcohol; probably why he woke up. The tapping is even more annoying when awake. Dean won’t pretend he didn’t hear Sammy’s sigh of relief just when he came to, though. “Don’t break another bone while you’re at it.”

Dean’s throat feels like sandpaper, but it seems like most of the dried blood is gone. He feels swollen all over, and remembering the events - which he’d rather not - he considers that he should probably stay away from reflective surfaces, because he probably wouldn’t even recognize himself if he tried.

“Where…” Dean wheezes, mouth feeling full of cotton balls. So Cas is the first thing on his mind, whether conscious or not. His eyes dart up to try to focus on Sam before he knows he’ll inevitably slip back into comfortable darkness. “Sunshine...?”

Sam looks concerned at him. Dean might be feverdreaming, but still, he gets it. ”He brought you here, and then I don’t know where he went.” Dean’s stomach twists with guilt, so painfully he almost groans. ”He was pretty roughed up, but I think he’ll be fine, Dean, so don’t worry about it for now. It’ll only do you worse.”

Sam gets him a glass of water and helps him to drink by placing a hand gently behind his head. Even lifting up from the bed makes his neck strain and his temples thump with an ache, body telling him to stop. 

He lies him back down as Dean just winces. Can’t make a sound or he might start to actually sob. 

“We’ll find him when you’re restored,” Sammy tells him, somewhere far away as he sees Dean’s eyes start to give in. ”Get better now, alright? For me. For him. Try to get some sleep.”

Dean sleeps for days.

He lives, comfortably numb, in dreams of his angel and him. A thousand and one dreams when life is easy, no masks and no bullshit, dreams when he gets to call him his, he gets to feel happiness and safety. 

Things he hasn’t felt in years. Or ever.

Inescapably he wakes up in the same bed with the same broken body and reminds himself: it can never happen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the actual endgame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this is the actual last chapter and the next is an epilogue~ (◡‿◡✿)

Dean stares up at the flower shop sign, like a challenge. Never in his life has he brought flowers. Hands deep in his pockets and an almost-pout on his face, he glances at the pizza place next door where he got a delicious, cheesy pepperoni pizza made of some sort of paradise, which was then forgotten on a rooftop, this very rooftop. 

In short, he’s standing grumpily and secretly terrified in front of the building where they met all those other times before, so, it only makes sense he’d buy him flowers from here. Totally makes sense.

“Sorry, baby,” he mouths to the pizza place before he pushes the door open ahead and walks in.

A bell dings above his head and the room smells fucking heavenly. All around him is a jungle of flowers of different kinds and colours, green leafs spilling over ceramic pots. He blinks around himself, dazzled, imagining what Castiel would like. Would he like _any_ of them? What if he _wouldn’t?_

It’s a thanks, for saving his ass and all that (Cas saved his ass; that’s basically a slogan for a T-shirt). And well, at least he’ll like them more than pizza, which he had politely declined previously when Dean wanted to try to lowkey flirt. He should have a medal for supporting local businesses like this, in the name of love.

Uh. Hm. Let’s not L-word this, just now. 

He was listening to Ramones and Zeppelin and other badass bands on the walk over here, when _Dammit_ had come on, the words _“well I guess this is growing up”_ ringing in his head currently as he goes walking up to the little stand of birthday cards and other shit. His eyes widen at a card with a big heart on and puts it away promptly. But it’s too late and suddenly all he can focus on are the bouquets of roses, pink or red. All he can think about is telling Cas how much he means to him.

 _Well_ , he guesses, _this is growing up_.

But most of all: _dammit_. Dammit all to _hell_. Because Dean hasn’t even seen him since he saved his life - again - and it’s been weeks and it’s been total agony because he still can’t stop dreaming about him. About sharing bedrooms together with privacy for makeout sessions, having takeaway for dinner in bed, watching movies Dean can educate him about and being useless and pliant and _happy_... Not fighting anymore. Not fearing for each other’s life. 

What else could Heaven really be like?

“Be with you momentarily,” a voice comes from behind the backroom, and in a way Dean’s interests peak up. He feels like he knows this voice, but can’t place it; it sounds different? Or is the setting just not right? 

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and rocks from heels to toes, lips pursed, waiting as you do. 

He gets a shock and a half when it’s Castiel that walks out. 

It’s like he could be hearing a cheesy, poppy love song at the end of a rom com, at least that’s how his traitorous body makes him react; knees weak, gulping hard. God, he’s _here_. He’s here, and he’s in a beautiful, midnight blue suit with an apron in front. 

He’s here and he’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful. 

Dean resists gasping. Dean resists running up and kissing Cas senseless.

Because Cas doesn’t even know what he looks like. He never saw him fully unmasked.

Instead, Dean stares unabashedly, you know, like a _crazy_ person. Big, green eyes like a deer in headlights, mouth falling open a bit. Castiel, in turn, stops wiping his hands off with a rag and squints at him.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh _yeah!”_ Dean looks around himself in panic. “I’m looking for uh, some flowers.”

Cas nods slowly. “Yes, it’s usually what people come here for.”

Dean wants to laugh. In frustration, in annoyance, in embarrassment. Laugh at the fact he’s so lovesick, laugh at the unashamed and rebellious yearning within his chest, begging to pull Cas against it to have their hearts beating together. Wow, come on now, that’s just cheesy and he can’t even make a pizza pun about it because he’s surrounded by _flowers_ instead!

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles, “I mean like. _For_ someone.” He nods vigorously. Fucking hell, he just wants to kiss him so bad, _so_ very bad, it feels kind of unbearable. Like he can’t stop staring at his stupidly beautiful face and those blue, blue eyes, only bluer when the colour is brought out like that, wearing that divine suit. His lips, oh his lips, he wants those lips on his body. “As a gift, a thank you. Or, something more than that, but I’m not sure so let’s ignore that for now.”

Castiel nods, understanding; a professional kind of empathy. Dean is just a stupid fucking guy trying to impress his girl or something. It must get tiresome to deal with Deans. Multiples. 

“I think I have an understanding from your description,” he says, “albeit confusing.” He rounds the counter and walks up to a glass case. “How about the roses?”

“Ah, yeah man, I looked at them but uh. I don’t know, it’s just so. _Romantic.”_ Dean makes an expression as if he’s eight years old and feelings are icky and girls have cooties. He is 29. “Uh, do you recommend anything? I mean. What do _you_ like? In your professional opinion as the shopkeeper?”

Castiel’s eyes seem to show so many emotions, Dean feels like exploding. Incinerating. Sinking through the floor. Death, time to take him, chop chop, hurry up now.

“I have a stronger preference for the plants,” Cas tells him sensibly. He walks before Dean up to the section of pots. “Peace Lily,” he suggests. “Clears the air. Easy to take care of.” Cas lets his hands float carefully around its edges, like a caress that doesn’t dare touch. Feeling its energy? Hippie peace and love crap? “I like to watch them grow, how they bring life.”

Dean wets his lips, watching him intently. “Sounds good.”

Cas flicks his eyes up at him. “There’s also the aloe vera,” he says. “It has sublime _healing_ qualities for the human body.”

Dean feels struck by lightning. “That’s… also very interesting,” he chokes out. All his visible scars seem to tingle. His stomach sure does; is this what people call butterflies? (When did they move in? Why are they not paying rent?)

Castiel’s face softens significantly. He pushes the pot with the peace lily into his arms. “I think this was the one you liked. You seemed happier. Let’s proceed to check you out.”

Dean will check _him_ out. To hell with this angel, made of stardust and cosmic powers and goddamn, Dean might just love him to the moon and back. 

Dean follows, reticent, pot clasped against his chest. His heart is beating so hard behind his ribs he might just be sick. But this would be incredibly embarrassing so he tries very hard not to. As if he can even level-up in embarrassment at this point in time, after everything. 

When Castiel starts to tap at the register, he flashes his blue eyes up at Dean again. “Shame I don’t work in the pizza restaurant, and maybe we’d have figured this out earlier.” When Dean looks puzzled, Cas smiles, ducking his head away. “Dean, I know it’s you. I’d recognize your soul anywhere.”

Dean nearly drops the fucking pot to the ground.

“And your lips,” Cas adds in a hush. “I could never forget kissing them.”

“God, Cas,” Dean whispers and has to put the pot away so he won’t actually lose his brain and let it smash. (Pot or brain? Both, definitely both.) “I had no idea you’d be here, I… I swear I’m not a stalker.”

”No, you’re not. You’re my partner in crime-fighting and you’re always welcome, even though I’ll admit it was unexpected. I assumed you’d still be at rest. However, it’s also very appreciated.”

Dean fumbles for the pot. ”Well, then, this is for you. A thank you.” He pushes it towards him, like a dumbass who can’t express things. Just forcing a potted plant at him and hoping he accepts it. ”I was worried about you. You disappeared on me, Cas. I thought you were a goner for good.”

”Dean,” Cas interrupts solemnly, ”should we skip these formalities so I can tell you I have a bed upstairs that might just fit our current needs?”

Dean really doesn’t need much more convincing. He takes it all back: God bless angels. 

”Get us on the bed,” Dean tells him in a murmur; he’s pinned to the wall with Castiel splayed over his body, his sinister lips on his neck. ”I was promised we’d make good use of it.”

Cas’ bedroom is dim and silent to the point it looks almost unused, like maybe he spends all his time outside during the night, like maybe it’s just a cover, much like Dean’s daytime job. (Which he lost during his absence; being beaten half to death by a vengeful spirit isn’t really something you can call in sick for.) In conclusion, the bed is queen-sized and soft-looking and seems very, very tempting and Dean wants very, very much to see Castiel’s naked body on it. 

This time, using no unexplainable mojo, Castiel grabs his thighs and hauls him up, Dean’s legs coming hooked behind his waist. And this - woah - this is a position Dean could definitely stay in. 

”Maybe I’d like to retract the earlier command,” he breathes abruptly, feeling his cock ache alongside Castiel’s. He feels dazed, so horny it’s as if the bed is just, _too_ far away. ”This is a pretty good spot too.”

He wants it right _now._

”I don’t believe you’re in a position to make any commands,” Cas tells him against his skin and, yeah, fine, Dean loves being bossed over. 

Dean is prepped and ready to go after riding a pair of amazing, slicked up fingers, and _goddamn_ , now his cock is so hard and so close to him and so right there, his voice gruff and demanding, it makes all those wants and needs within him pump hotly through his body and urges him to move this along faster, oh so much faster. 

Cas leaves butterfly kisses from his jaw to his neck until Dean is gasping for air, grasping for a link to sanity with his hand in his hair. He needs to hurry this conversation up or, so help him god, he’ll come untouched. 

”Can I make a plea?” Dean breathes, grinding his hips against him filthily. He can’t take it anymore, he can’t. _”Please,_ fuck me.”

Castiel breathes out sharply, then bites down on his neck, leaving a determined hickey; it aches so fucking good compared to the rest of Dean’s sore body. Like everything hurts except this right here, everything in the world except them. 

He pulls away so that Dean’s feet hit the floor, starts to struggle with his belt to a jingling sound and Dean looks at his flushed face with a smirk. He loves that he gets to see it now, unmasked, just real. How it changes when he’s turned on, or when he gets commanding, or right now, struggling to regain his composure. 

”Condom,” Dean reminds him breezily and Cas stops, fumbles some more. ”Good boy.”

Cas seems to hesitate after that, meeting him with such eyes, full of the piercing harshness. Both stuck on their breaths, high strung. _What now?_ Dean stares at his eyes, then drops to his dick in his hand, licks his lips. 

”The bed,” Dean reminds him on an exhale. 

He wants to fuck him on every piece of furniture, to be fucking honest. 

To a sound of surprise, Cas grabs Dean’s thighs and hauls him up effortlessly, his face burning up hot as he drops him on the bed where he bounces down. But Dean is a quick thinker, oh yes, instantly pulling Cas on top of himself so that he almost staggers. Dean’s grinning, maybe manically, wrapping his legs around him with the urge of wanting him inside immediately. 

He bites his lip to muffle a moan when he feels his hard, lubed up cock tease to enter him, but allows the whimpers to escape when Cas’ lips start sucking on his collarbones as he slowly pushes inside him. Their hips meet, and Dean’s thighs are already trembling. 

_”Fuck,”_ he hisses, eyes shutting and head tilting back against the mattress. His dick twitches against his stomach, leaking and begging. It’s just, like it’s all too good to be true. Rephrase: it’s exactly what he fucking needed. 

”Are you okay?” Castiel asks him, watchful blue eyes scanning his face, his body, almost trembling. Trying to stay still with Dean all around him. Dean is sure it shows for _miles_ how beyond okay and ready he is, clenching down on him, one hand fisted in the sheets. 

”Yeah, hell yeah, go on. Fuck me like you want to.” Dean rakes one hand down his back until he can cup his ass, drawing him in, watching as those eyes go darker. ”You know I want it too. Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

Cas drops his face onto his shoulder, hopelessly lost in the sparking sensations as he drags out, then thrusts back in hard; Dean chokes on his breath and squeezes his legs tighter around his waist, eyes rolling back and falling shut. 

Sparking sensations, huh. Dean is pretty sure the lights above are flickering. Or maybe it’s his eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. 

Dean tangles his hands in his hair as he starts to figure out a pace, slowly first, almost painstakingly slow. Dean grips him harder, silently begging him to go faster, but his whiney noises might just communicate it well enough. 

They become a mess of tangled limbs after that; soft sighs, moans, and a very squeaky bed hitting the wall repeatedly. Too impatient with the slow, thorough thrusts, he eventually groans, almost exasperatedly, or desperately, and wrestles himself to the top. 

Cas’ eyes are wide and watchful when he gets up in his lap, still inside, thighs bracing his waist. He puts his tentative hands on Dean’s waist, splaying out over bruised skin. 

”Yee-fucking-haw,” Dean breathes, grinning. 

He leans his own hands against his heaving chest, starts grinding and rocking his hips, riding Cas to a point of bliss. The pleasure all-consuming, in his hands, but given to him by Cas. 

”Dean…” Cas merely whispers with his head thrown back against the sheets, baring a neck full of stains from Dean’s lip and no, yeah, this is it. That’s the _best thing_ Dean has seen in his whole life and he grabs his dick to start stroking while he grinds his hips, flush to Castiel’s, biting his lips together and brow furrowed in concentration. 

Moaning and bouncing to the pace he wants, the best fucking part is how he gets to _watch_ him the whole time; eyes mesmerized, face etched in pleasure, and everything is fucking heavenly. 

He falls forward, still grinding, Cas’ hips bucking up to meet him sloppily. But he needs _more_ , and more than that. 

_”Harder,_ baby,” Dean begs, hot and useless lips against his jaw. ”Go _faster_. I’m gonna come soon, come _on_.”

”Dean,” Cas murmurs, like a warning. 

”Fuck,” Dean nearly whimpers, ”just do it, do your worst.”

In quick succession, to another sound of surprise, Cas is lifting him off the bed and pinning him against the wall with a hard thump. Okay, so Dean _loves_ angel mojo. For _real_. He gasps and grabs his hair hard, kisses him; he bites down on his bottom lip as he thrusts back inside him. 

He’s turned on enough by the fact he’s even strong enough to both keep him restrained and fuck him at the same time. Everything else is just a cherry on top. And Cas quickens the speed so that Dean openly pants, head thrown back and nails digging into his back. 

It’s just gasps and slick sounds shared between them, his back thumping against the wall, a sheen of sweat illuminating every muscle on Cas’ working body. Dean sneaks his arm to his dick and starts to pump himself, losing his mind over how good it feels, how _perfect_. He buries his face into the crook of his neck; he won’t last, god knows he wants to, but his stomach tightens and Cas groans in his ear and he _feels_ how he comes, how he _makes_ him come— 

When he follows him moments later, he might just see stars. His body locks up. It takes way too long to regain his composure but, fuck it, he could stay right here forever. 

It feels like sparks fly. 

_Oh_ , he realises when he opens his eyes again. The ceiling light really broke. 

Convenient. 

Basically, when Dean is spent and achy - but stupidly euphoric and very content - Cas pulls out, has Dean wincing, and he drops him carefully back on the mattress. Cas lies down alongside him after chucking the condom, and they quietly catch their breaths in the now even more dim light of the evening. 

He doesn’t really know what to say at that point. That was divine fucking intervention. It was rapture. 

Dean might do him a solid and change that bulb for him. Better clean up the shards, at least. Whatever. That’s a project for tomorrow. 

Dean snatches his boxers from the floor - with about as much grace as a buffoon, thanks - to tug them back on, before he musters some strength and rolls underneath the covers of the bed. Seemingly unused, and yet it all smells like Cas; so familiar and nice. He actually smiles secretly to himself. 

He conceals them both under the covers, not caring much if Cas is keen on going to bed at 7pm because Dean is very content with nesting here for tonight and maybe forever because he’s dead tired, frankly, and the light now turned out doesn’t make matters any better. Cas smiles in a way that makes his eyes scrunch up adorably though, so human and safe, as Dean snuggles up gratefully into the pillow while he sits next to him. 

That smile matches the happiness Dean feels within, a spark. A glimmer of something that unmistakably feels like hope. 

Castiel’s eyes fall on Dean’s body where his chest lays unconcealed, at each rise and fall. It’s worse than ever, to be fair. Blue, red and purple in all the wrong places. At least he has some hickeys now to make up for it. A few marks of love beside the ones of hate. 

”I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” Castiel murmurs, and Dean is about to agree and call him cheesy or something, but he abruptly continues. ”Hold on.”

Placing his hand on Dean’s chest, Dean feels a prickling warmth spread throughout his body. It’s like a cup of coffee - spiked with vodka - on a cold winter day as it spreads from his chest and out to every limb, to his fingertips, his toes. It buzzes and sparkles. 

He never felt anything like it, making him _gasp_. 

He’s about to ask if Castiel just healed his itsy bitsy, achey breakey heart from all the misery and hate it previously contained or something, filled it with only the love he has for him, but. 

When he looks down at his body, it’s normal. Plain fucking _normal_. That is to say, his skin is smooth, without jagged scars and hellish burns. Without cuts and grazes. Without anything that ever physically harmed him. Not a memory of pain, just the hickeys he just created. And what a beautiful creation that is. 

He healed him. He _healed_ every visible sign of pain. 

”I lowered your cholesterol too,” Castiel informs him when Dean can’t find the words to speak, hand still hot, placed over his heart. ”I know you like the pizzas here so I believe it’s in both of our interests you eat as many more as your heart desires.”

Dean is so stunned, he just sits up and grabs his face and kisses him, kisses him hard and sincere, and nothing even hurts. He doesn’t know how to say thank you. He hopes he conveys it well enough with the way he pours every ounce of emotion into the brush of their lips. 

His sunshine. His only sunshine. 

Then they lay there in their soft cocoon, breathing gently and sharing warmth. 

Dean can hardly believe all he’s been allowed to do. To touch, to experience, all he’s allowed himself to feel. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. 

”Is it cool if I, you know,” Dean starts off, sheepishly. It’s so uncharacteristic for him to feel uncertain, but he really doesn’t want to screw this up now. Not _now_. ”Crash here, I guess?” 

”Crash?”

”I mean. Yeah, we pretty much already literally crashed into bed, you maybe more in general too, but I mean. Can I sleep over? Stay until the morning?”

”Of course,” Castiel confirms, sinking lower yet under the covers. ”Do we lay in bed until dawn?”

”Hey, you do you.” He shoots off a text for Sam to announce he won’t be making it home tonight, winky face. ”I’m just saying I feel kind of tired but I’m the one who’s been knocked out on painkillers for a few weeks.”

He puts his phone away - after Sam tells him fine, but to promise to spare him from gross details - in favour of slinging his arm around Castiel. It feels so affectionate, such a raw emotion, and yet he can’t stop himself once he starts. He snuggles up against him and looks out over the room, eyelids heavy. It’s been a long time since he felt so calm. 

Castiel’s chest rises, he stops himself. Then he tries again. ”I’ve been considering,” he says, as if he’s still searching for words, ”if maybe I misspoke to you. If, maybe I never fell. Maybe there was some other way.”

Dean blinks up at him from where his head was resting next to his on the pillow. ”What are you thinking?” he inquires softly. 

”That maybe I was stationed here. I don’t have any memory still, but. It’s like something tells me I’m wrong. That I can’t possibly have fallen. It’s a fall from _grace_ , to be cast out, and I still am very much an angel.”

”Okay,” Dean confirms quietly, beckoning him to please continue. There’s been a lot of info to take in the past few weeks. It’s just another piece of a bigass puzzle. ”Does Lucifer ring a bell? Buddy of yours?”

”No,” Castiel says so quickly, Dean honestly can’t tell if it’s meant to be said... jokingly? Maybe Dean needs to open his mind to more possibilities, then, such as, the actual Devil being an angel who walks the Earth among them. 

Stranger things have happened. 

Ugh. What a weird thought. 

”Maybe I was stationed to protect you,” Cas continues and meets Dean’s eye. He looks surprised himself. 

”So. Uh. You’re my guardian angel?”

Cas shrugs. ”Would you like that?”

Dean has to grin. This is such a strange conversation. ”Sunshine, I know three things for certain. One is that I really want to crash right now. Secondly, Bert and Ernie are as _gay_ as we are.”

”Who are these people?”

”And three,” Dean goes on, ”I want to wake up tomorrow and make us some coffee. And you’re gonna think I look hot as fuck in my boxers and T-shirt being all housewifey and shit in your kitchen, and then we’re gonna fuck on the counter. Does that sound good to you?”

”Very much so,” Cas whispers, a little wide-eyed. 

”Alright, awesome,” Dean grins, triumphant and mischievous. He resists a yawn. ”Hey, do angels sleep?”

”I’ve never slept.”

”Huh. Whack.” Dean snuggles into his shoulder. ”Then if you got nothing better to do, maybe your protective duty starts now. Just lie here and be comfy while I rest my eyes for a sec.”

Castiel hums something affirmative, and seems to sink into the mattress even more, pliant and soft. Or maybe it’s just Dean drifting calmly to sleep. 

And when he wakes up the next day to the soft light through wayward blinds, and Castiel whispers a good morning from a warm place next to him in the bed, he knows. He just knows. This is where he was always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii I'm coming in once again to say I have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0X1flMpv272wP0Ig9KNSy1?si=a227982aaa6448a1) if you need any song recommendations and stuff. In particular if you like classic rock, in which case, you're already winning.
> 
> Okay but as a real end note I feel like these are my weird kids and I enjoyed writing this So Much and I hope you enjoyed reading too! I realize I want to (not really) apologize on behalf of my weird brain going full on obscure reference mode because it’s like my favourite weird trait about Dean. If you reacted with Cas’ confusion, I guess my job here is done.<3 very sorry<3


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes it was meant to end there but I can’t let go of these guys apparently! because like, Exhibit A: I was aiming for a >10k fic and quickly ended up with 30k. Yeah. That happened. Exhibit B: I just wanted to write a 1k epilogue to get some mental peace but this is dangerously close to 3k lol okie

_ **Epilogue** _

Dean didn’t use to think he wanted to live past 29. 

Hell, he didn’t think he would survive it either, half the time. 

When he walks through the door of their apartment after one fairly easy solo mission and kicks his snow-covered boots off, he doesn’t expect Sam to pop confetti into his face. Blinking, he also doesn’t expect his eyes to come back into focus on Castiel, holding a very terrible homemade _cake_ in his hands with blue frosting dripping over the edges of the plate. He can _almost_ make out the number 30 spelled in the middle with M&M’s. It’s like a very wayward rainbow. 

”Happy birthday!” Sam hollers. He’s got flour stains all over his red flannel shirt and Cas has a complimentary smear of icing on his cheek. 

”What the hell?” Dean laughs, picking confetti out of his hair. ”Did you guys make that?”

”Yes,” Castiel answers solemnly, but Dean can tell the little shit is proud too. 

”Is it _edible?”_

”Yes,” he repeats, with just a _little_ less conviction. 

Even Sam looks hesitant at that point. Which is like, alright, it has indeed been established several times (after several hand-shaped flour marks slapped onto Cas’ ass) that Dean is both the master chef and star baker of this household. It’s definitely not Cas’ forte, nor one of his celestial superpowers. 

But Dean won’t piss on their parade; instead he just grins wider. ”Aw. You guys are awesome!”

He pulls Cas - his beautiful Cas, in an oversized Metallica T-shirt and faded jeans that make his thighs look extra munchable - in for a kiss, and tries to not let the cake get all smudged between them. (He’s ready to flip off Sam’s _guys I’m still here_ -cough, which he’s still sure is bound to come, but he smiles against the brush of lips instead when no such interruption comes. After all, it’s been a few months of this; passed six of ‘em and aiming for many more.)

”Nice hair, Sammy,” Dean says over Cas’ shoulder. 

Sam nearly pulls the hair tie out, keeping his shoulder-length mop in a bun. ”Thanks.”

Dean pulls back and fonds at Cas. ”Nice _face.”_

Cas squints, like Clint Eastwood, but more mischevious. ”Are you flirting with me, Dean Winchester?”

”Oh yeah, guess I am. For the past few months but thanks for noticing.” Dean swipes up the smear of icing on Cas’ cheek with his thumb and gleefully licks it off with a pop, gaining a smile to mirror his own. ”Maybe I should hit the shower first. Whatcha say? Do I stink?”

”You’re fine,” Cas tells him. If he lies, he’s damn good at it. ”You’ve done enough _hitting_ for the day. Come join our feast in peace.”

The cake, as it turns out, is very much _not_ edible. Dean still forces a slice down just to be polite. Smile through the pain, that’s totally his motto. At least the M&M topping is great. 

”How does it feel to be 30, Dean-osaur?” Sam asks him eventually over his plate, sharing the small kitchen table they acquired from Ikea a while ago. Which is kind of crazy, seeing as most of their furniture used to be found on the street, or at various flea markets. Now they’re shopping where normal people go, apparently, and that’s a really, very cool thing. 

”As good as you’ll feel in 4 years, assbutt,” Dean deadpans. ”Your point?”

”You’re slowly losing the sugar baby status,” Sam reasons, gesturing to Castiel who just looks at him. He’s a good fucking sport for putting up with this. Thing is, he doesn’t even seem to _mind._ It’s just Dean who gives his brother a death-glare. ”Catching up to your boyfriend over here.”

”Sam, he’s like, _hundreds_ of years old.” Dean pats Castiel half-heartedly on the shoulder, opposite him at their small kitchen table. ”No offense, baby.”

”None taken, Dean,” Cas smiles. ”It’s actually more than—”

Dean puts a finger to his lips. ”Let’s not get into those details right now. But thanks.”

Rest assured, the brothers had both adapted pretty well given their circumstances, which is to say, after the _initial inner turmoil_ when they felt like they jumped right into a David Fincher movie at best, or like, a David Lynch one. It tends to feel like that when one’s perception of reality gets warped, which is how the story goes as you go running into violence and ancient entities left and right. But, Dean has assimilated. He’s totally completely fine, he’s _fine_ , like, he _barely_ even has any nightmares or night terrors anymore. Which is likely because he’s so often soothed right back to sleep by someone awake next to him in bed, to wrap his arm around him and shush into his hair, to catch him when he goes falling through the abyss of his mind. 

The old-jokes were just getting, you know… _old._

And anyway, the thing is, Cas really _is_ his boyfriend now; nearly moved in too, given how often he’s here. So Dean can’t yell about Sam _abusing_ him anymore when he calls him that. And this fact pains him deeply. 

The _boyfriend_ title, evidently, does _not_ pain him. Actually, it might just be the best thing that ever happened to him. But it’s hard to choose. Every morning he wakes up in a clean, large bed next to his Cas, in sleep-rumpled T-shirts and ruffled, dark hair, he also thinks it’s the best thing that ever happened to him. Everytime he touches him it’s the best thing that ever happened. Everytime he smiles. Everytime he pins Dean to the bed and makes an entire avenue worth of lamp posts go out in the process. 

Granted, if Dean was a little less sappy at the moment, he could also make a list containing moments like oh, everytime he looked up at Cas from down on his knees, white shirt unbuttoned over his collarbones and demanding where Dean should put his mouth… Also top notch moments to be alive, to be fucking honest. But yeah. Romance, and stuff. Cas, in short, is just awesome. 

He may have never said it out loud - the _L-bomb_ a bit too heavy to drop still - but at least he hopes all that adoration he feels his heart full to the brink of got shown through the dozen mixtapes he’s made over the months, signed for his Cas, or his Sunshine, or something else entirely that the mood calls for, with two x’s for two kisses at the end. Hell, he just knows too many good songs to not make use of them. He may not be good with words, but he’s very good with memorizing cheesy lyrics. 

Ain’t no sunshine when he’s gone. 

”All I’m saying is,” Sam sighs pointedly, ”I don’t have anything like _that_ to worry about. I can grow old and nobody will care. You, on the other hand…”

”Are you really going to claim I’m a loser when _you’re_ the one who’s _single?”_

Sam glares, scandalized. ”And I _choose_ to be, _Dean.”_

”Yeah? And why don’t you tell that to the girl you were ogling at the grocery store?”

”He was very invested,” Cas mildly confirms, reminiscing the other day. _”She_ was judging his grocery choices.”

”She did not,” Sam protests, blushing wildly. 

Cas nods solemnly, speaking to Dean. ”She looked especially appalled when the bag of avocados came up.”

”They’re _good for you_ ,” Sam sighs in desperate exasperation. 

They continue bickering for a while. It ends, as it usually ends, with a well-aimed kick under their small table and another one in return. Okay, so, maybe they got stuck at maturing two decades ago or so, but it still makes them both laugh, and Cas smiles like they’re not just complete idiots. Or, like they’re at least _his_ idiots, which he tolerates the company of with a sense of, seemingly, genuine happiness. 

Dean likes him very, very much. 

”You gotta have an angel brother to hook him up with,” Dean says to Cas, rubbing the pain out of his ankle under the table. ”Anyone as good-looking as you up there?”

”I’m not—” Sam starts. 

Cas interrupts. ”I’ll see what I can do,” he says, accepting the mission with full seriousness. 

They don’t do a lot of the superhero kind of missions these days anyway, crime rates at a pretty stable state of fine, or even good, so maybe they have a bit of an itch for adventure. But, at least Cas has been venturing through Dean’s music collection and figuring out if he likes any of it, for starters, so that’s been quite the journey to come home to, tapes and records scattered all over the wooden floors with a tiny Cas in the middle draped with a blanket and eyes big and joyful. He might just be pretending, but Dean gives him some merch as gifts either fucking way. He looks hot, so, it’s a win-win. Suck it. 

Dean cuts himself another slice just for the hell of it. Scrapes up some extra M&M’s as a treat. He is the birthday boy, after all, and he doesn’t care at all that his metabolism might be going downhill after 30. More of him to love, and all that. 

Sam and Castiel eventually start to discuss the flavour of the cake and what could have been done differently. They agree on its insufficient nutritional value; Cas’ words. Dean just happily listens at that point, cradling a cup of coffee from the brewer they invested in, watching them go back and forth like a ping pong game. At least they don’t argue, or at least not too badly. They’re a chaotic duo if Dean ever saw one but at least they keep a good tone, at least by his standards. 

But Sam _does_ accuse Cas of dropping extra salt into the batter, at which Dean flicks an M&M into Sam’s face. 

”Ow. Foul play!” 

”Nobody accuses _my_ baby of treason and goes unharmed!” Dean declares. 

Not even his stupid baby brother. Nuh-uh.

”Agreeable conditions, Freckles,” Cas comments, smiling gently. He is - figuratively, and literally - an _angel._

Sam pops the M&M ammunition into his mouth and eats it. 

When the discussion eventually fades out and it’s all just perfect bliss, Dean straightens up in his chair. ”So,” he says, putting his plate down on the table like a visible transition in the conversation. ”Who wants to celebrate with some Mickey D’s?”

Castiel squints. ”Who?”

”McDonald’s,” Dean clarifies. 

”I don’t know a Mickey McDonald,” he says, confused. ”Is he a friend?”

”Very good friend,” Dean says fondly. ”Hey, you know what, nevermind. What about Subway?”

”Sure,” Sam shrugs. 

”Alright.” Dean points his spoon at Castiel. ”What’s your sub of choice, baby?”

”Sub?” He furrows his brow in confusion. It’s like he’s being quizzed. ”Well. _You_ are, Dean.”

Dean drops his spoon. It clinks so loudly onto the plate he startles too. ”Goddamn it, Cas,” he murmurs, heat creeping up his neck. ”Shouldn’t be having those kinds of conversations at the kitchen table.”

”Oh,” Cas acknowledges. 

Sam stares in front of himself with a haunted expression. ”I’m never eating Subway again.”

”I apologize, Sam,” Cas supplies, smiling kindly. ”Your brother uses very strange words sometimes. Don’t let it change your habits.”

Dean, blushing, shakes his head vehemently. ”Fuck it. Let’s come up with something else. What are you in the mood for? _Foodwise._ ”

”Pizza?” Cas suggests, big eyes so blue and hopeful. 

Dean is _so_ relieved. ”Hey, yeah, good idea, I’ll just order us a pizza. This is fine? PG-13?” He pushes away from the table, speaking too fast to allow any answer. ”Great, nobody made a _Dom_ ino joke.”

Sam slams his head on the table in distress. 

”Manners.” Dean pokes him. ”Come on, Sammy, you want pizza or not?”

”Uh, yeah,” Sam answers, a little sadly. He sits up with a sigh. ”Can I get pineapple?”

”Sure thing, you very vile abomination,” Dean confirms enthusiastically, finger-gunning him. ”How about you, stardust? Care to join his sinning?”

”The mixture might be intriguing,” Castiel reasons, seeming to be picturing it. ”Sweet and savoury with the fermented dairy. It was already a little strange as is, so this might just work.”

”Hell yeah,” Sam cheers as he starts to gather the dishes. ”Your man knows better than you do.”

They high-five, Cas nearly missing and Sam nearly dropping his stack of plates. 

”Madhouse,” Dean states, shaking his head. ”Freakin’ madhouse.”

Still, he feels so happy. This madhouse he’s found himself in happens to be a two bedroom apartment they collectively decided to move into, combining savings with a generous reward for solving the Valkyr case handed out by the local police department. What can he say, he was tired of stinky, abandoned houses, and he really got jealous every time he had to leave Cas’ bed to return to his own springy camping bed mattress. 

Now though, he and Sam have a room each, without damaged windows or drippy ceilings or ice cold floors. Some lady lives downstairs but it just means Dean runs into one of her cats every once in a blue moon when he stumbles out to the garage and nearly trips on one of the fluffy little bastards in the dark. There’s a pretty big, airy and light living room that leads to each of their bedrooms on either side, which works mighty fine as a sound block, of a kind. When Cas comes to visit it’s handy dandy. But Dean has an incredible stereo for KISS and AC/DC and all his other examples of why he has the greatest taste in music ever, and Sam can also put on some Taylor Swift or whatever it is he listens to, shutting out whatever _noises_ they may make. 

Which is, um. Superhero push-ups, clearly. Crime fighting activities that can only be performed in Dean’s bed. 

Dean is still smiling when he gets up from the table and walks into said living room. Its tall windows are filled with lots of green leaf plants, which was entirely Cas’ idea and his contribution to the interior design, transported to here from his shop; it’s done easily enough when you’ve got wings. Maybe that’s why he brought so fucking many. Hell, at least it gives him a reason to keep swinging by, because otherwise Dean would just forget to water them and accidentally turn them to a crisp. He can’t just break his heart like that. 

The living room also has a TV, which is pretty cool, and a book case for their movie collection they’re starting to build; they plow through a few every weekend so Dean can teach Cas all about them (or: gush and swoon and blabber, but he accepts that too). Dean has even started making quite a collection of his CDs, cassettes and vinyls, but he feels a little protective over those and keeps them in his room instead, with his bed, and his closet full of actual clean and hole-free clothes, a matching set of star-print jammies, and some more spare outfits for his boyfriend. 

In conclusion, it’s a damn good life when you don’t feel constantly on the run to, or from, trouble. That there’s always a safe place to return to. 

The best thing, though, is the people. The safe set of arms to embrace him when he comes home. He never knew he’d been so lonely until he got all he could have ever wanted. 

He grabs his phone to make the call, when a familiar warm body wraps around him from behind, arms around his waist. Dean smiles and leans into it, like a cat in the sun. 

”Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas murmurs and kisses his shoulder. 

Dean feels lucky. Out of this world kind of lucky. ”Thanks, sunshine,” he murmurs back, and dials the pizza place. ”And I’m getting you back for the teasing later.”

(If only Dean could have scolded him using his full name right there at the table, like woah, that’s when it means danger and consequence to follow _for real_. Only, Cas doesn’t exactly have a last name. Or middle, but. Maybe he should, uh, you know, take Dean’s last name… Just to fix this situation, obviously. But Dean might get heart palpitations thinking too hard about that.

Not that he doesn’t... want it. That. The, uh... marriage. Oh god. He literally just turned 30 and he’s instantly thinking about settling down because Cas is beautiful and awesome and feels like sunshine, oh _god_.)

”No inappropriate touching while I call,” he continues, a murmur against his temple where he’s planted a thousand kisses before, ”capiche?”

”What touching?” Cas asks, smirking into the crook of his neck as his hands drop lower from his waist, and Dean sighs for about three different reasons. 

If he’d had to blow out candles and make a wish, it’d have been for another year just like this. But, he thinks, it might just happen like that anyway.

Besides. Why blow the candles when you can blow an angel? Wink, wink. 

** _end_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random final side note + self-indulgent recommendation: I tried very hard to not make a reference to Watchmen throughout this because the actor who plays John Winchester is literally The Comedian which is like PERFECT but I’d have gone crazy mixing those universes. THEN I started watching The Boys which was also written by Kripke and I tried so hard to resist Dean from calling Cas by Starlight because Jensen is gonna be on the show!! lol wow but I recommend both this movie and this show if you’re into these things. Byee ♡


End file.
